THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 
OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 


Jftamte 


OWEN  KILDARE. 


The  Story  of  My 
Regeneration 


By  OWEN   KILDARE 


An  Autobiography 


THE    BAKER    y    TAYLOR    COMPANY 

38-87  EAST  17TH  STREET,  UNION  SQ.  NORTH 


Copyright,   1903,  by  THE  BAKER  &  TAYLOR  COMPANY 


Published,   October. 


Printed  at 

The  Greenwich  Press 

New  York.  U.S.A. 


PS 


515. 


147O118 


CONTENTS. 

Chapter  Page 

I.  THB  KID  OF  THE  TENEMENT     .        ,        .        .13 

II.  A  PAIR  OF  SHOES  ....  29 

III.  A  NOMAD  OF  THE  STREETS      .        .        .        -45 

IV.  LIVING  BY  MY  MUSCLE 61 

V.  LIVING    BY    MY    WITS 69 

VI    AT  THE  SIGN  OF  CHICORY  HALL      .        .         .83 

VII.  MY  GOOD  OLD  PAL 101 

VIII.  KNIGHTS  ERRANT       ......  119 

IX.  A  PLAYER  OF  MANY  PARTS      ....   131 

X.  BOWERY  POLITICS      ......  151 

XI.  A  PILGRIMAGE  TO  NATURE       ....  169 

XII.  THE  FRONTIER  OF  THE  NEWER  LIFB  .  195 

XIII.  THE  BEGINNING  OF  THE  MIRACLE      .  .  207 

XIV.  THE  OLD  DOORS  CLOSE 221 

XV.  A  KINDERGARTEN  OF  ONE       ....  233 

XVI.  AMBASSADOR  BILL 255 

XVII.  MY  DEBUT  IN  SOCIETY 259 

XVIII.  THE  JOURNEY  HOME 277 

XIX.  THE  INHERITANCE 287 


ILLUSTRATIONS. 

OWEN  KILDARE Frontispiece 

MAP  OF  BOWERY  DISTRICT  .  .  .  Facing  f  age  13 
MR.  KILDARE'S  BIRTHPLACE  ON  CATHERINE  STREET  .  20 
BILL 106 

A    TYPICAL    GROUP    AT    BARNEY     FLYNN'S    SIDE- 
DOOR          Facing  page    140 

MIKE  CALLAHAN'S  SALOON 164 


THE  KID  OF  THE  TENEMENT. 


MAP  OF  THE  BOWERY  DISTRICT. 

The  map  on  the  left  shows  how  small  a  fraction  of  Manhat 
tan  Island  (only  a  small  part  of  New  York  City  in  itself)  this 
world-famous  district  is.  In  this  small  section,  called  by 
Mr.  Kildare  "The  Highway  of  the  Foolish,"  he  was  born 
and  lived,  until  he  was  thirty.  Rarely  did  he  leave  it.  In 
fact,  he  states  that  a  large  percentage  of  the  people  who  are 
born  here  go  through  life  with  the  very  vaguest  ideas  of  the 
world  beyond — many  living  and  dying  without  ever  having 
passed  north  of  i4th  Street  and  West  of  Broadway.  It  is  a 
strange  world  of  strange  people  who  live  only  from  day  to 
day  and  unto  their  daily  needs. 


MY  MAMIE  ROSE. 


CHAPTER  I. 

THE    KID    OF    THE    TENEMENT. 

MANY  men  have  told  the  stories  of  their  lives.  I 
shall  tell  you  mine.  Not  because  I,  as  they,  have 
done  great  and  important  things,  but  because  of  the 
miracle  which  transformed  me. 

If  lives  may  be  measured  by  progress  mine  may 
have  some  interest  to  you.  When  a  man  at  thirty 
cannot  read  or  write  the  simplest  sentence,  and 
then  eight  years  later  is  able  to  earn  his  living  by  his 
pen,  his  story  may  be  worth  the  telling. 

Before  beginning,  however,  the  recital  of  how  I 
found  my  ambition  awakened,  let  me  make  my 
position  unmistakably  definite.  I  am  not  a  self- 
made  man,  having  only  contributed  a  mite  in  the 
making.  A  self-made  man  can  turn  around  to  the 
road  traveled  by  him  and  can  point  with  pride  to 


My  Mamie  Rose. 

the  monuments  of  his  achievements.     I  cannot  do 
that.   I  have  no  record  of  great  deeds  accomplished. 

I  am  a  man,  reborn  and  remade  from  an  unfor 
tunate  moral  condition  into  a  life  in  which  every 
atom  has  but  the  one  message,  "Strive,  struggle  and 
believe,"  and  I  would  be  the  sneakiest  hypocrite 
were  I  to  deny  that  I  feel  within  me  a  satisfaction 
at  being  able  to  respond  to  the  call  with  all  the 
possible  energy  of  soul  and  body.  I  have  little  use 
for  a  man  who  cloaks  his  ability  with  mock  modesty. 
A  man's  conscience  is  the  best  barometer  of  his 
ability,  and  he  who  will  pretend  a  disbelief  in  his 
ability  is  either  untruthful  or  has  an  ulterior  motif. 

In  spite  of  having,  as  yet,  accomplished  little,  I 
have  confidence  in  myself  and  my  ability,  because 
my  aims  are  distinctly  reasonable.  I  regret  that  in 
my  story  the  first  person  singular  will  be  so  much 
in  evidence,  but  it  cannot  be  otherwise.  Each  fact, 
each  incident  mentioned,  has  been  lived  by  me ;  the 
disgrace  and  the  glory,  the  misery  and  the  happiness, 
are  all  part  of  my  life,  and  I  cannot  separate  them 
from  myself.  I  know  you  will  not  disbelieve  me, 
and  I  am  willing  to  be  confronted  by  your  criticism, 
which,  for  obvious  reasons,  will  not  be  directed 
against  ray  diction,  elegance  of  style  and  literary 
quality.  I  am  not  an  author.  I  only  have  a  story  to 
tell  and  all  the  rest  remains  with  you. 

>4 


The  Kid  of  the  Tenement. 

There  was  nothing  remarkable  about  my  early 
childhood.  Most  of  the  boys  of  the  tenements  are 
having  or  have  had  the  same  experience. 

The  home  which  sheltered  my  foster  parents  (my 
own  father  and  mother  died  in  my  infancy,  as  I  will 
tell  you  later)  and  myself  consisted  of  two  rooms. 
The  rental  was  six  dollars  a  month.  Located  on 
the  top  floor  of  an  old-style  tenement  house  in 
Catharine  street,  our  home  was  lighted  and  ven 
tilated  by  one  small  window,  which  looked  out  into 
a  network  of  wash-lines  running  from  the  windows 
to  tall  poles  placed  in  the  corners  of  the  yard.  By 
craning  your  neck  out  of  the  window  you  could 
look  into  the  yard,  six  stories  below,  and  discover 
the  causes  of  the  stenches  which  rose  with  might 
to  your  nostrils. 

The  "front  room"  was  kitchen,  dining-room,  liv 
ing  room  and  my  bedroom  all  in  one.  Beside  the 
cooking  range  in  winter  and  beside  the  open  window 
in  summer  was  the  old  soap  box  on  its  unevenly 
curved  supports,  which,  as  my  cradle,  bumped  me 
into  childhood. 

As  may  be  surmised,  both  of  my  foster  parents 
were  Irish.  My  father,  a  'longshoreman,  enjoyed  a 
reputation  of  great  popularity  in  the  Fourth  Ward, 
at  that  time  an  intensely  Irish  district  of  the  city. 
Popularity  in  the  Fourth  Ward  meant  a  great  circle 

15 


My  Mamie  Rose. 

of  convivial  companions  and  a  fair  credit  with  the 
ginmill  keepers.  His  earnings  would  have  been 
considerable  had  he  been  a  persistent  worker.  But 
men  of  popularity  cannot  afford  to  be  constantly  at 
work.  It  would  perhaps  fill  their  pocketbooks,  but 
decrease  their  popularity.  These  periods  of  coni- 
viviality,  hilarious  intervals  to  my  father,  were  most 
depressing  to  my  mother. 

Life  in  tenements  is  a  particularly  busy  one  of 
its  kind.  When  all  efforts  are  directed  toward  the 
one  end  of  providing  the  wherewithal  for  food  and 
rent,  each  meal  and  each  rent  day  is  an  epoch-making 
event. 

As  soon  as  one  month's  rent  is  paid,  each  suc 
ceeding  day  has  its  own  thoughts  of  dread  "against 
next  rent  day."  The  thrifty  housekeeper  lays  aside 
a  share  of  her  daily  allowance — increasing  it  dur 
ing  the  last  week  of  the  month — until,  with  a  sigh 
of  relief,  she  can  say,  "Thank  God,  we  got  it  this 
time." 

I  firmly  believe  that  a  great  share  of  the  dread  is 
created  by  the  aversion  to  a  personal  meeting  with 
the  rent  collector  or  agent.  People  who  have  to 
measure  the  size  of  their  meals  by  the  length  of 
their  purses  are  very  apt  to  become  a  trifle  un 
steady  in  their  ethics  concerning  financial  questions. 
They  are  willing  to  pay  their  grocer  or  butcher,  but 

16 


The  Kid  of  the  Tenement. 

lose  sight  of  the  fact  that  the  rent  money  is  the 
payment  for  the  most  important  purchase,  the  se 
curing  of  their  home.  They  are  friendly  with  the 
shopkeeper,  are  often  "jollied"  by  him  into  spending 
money  otherwise  needed,  but  regard  the  rent  col 
lector  as  their  personal  enemy. 

There  are  many  rent  collectors,  and,  as  in  all 
greater  numbers,  quite  a  few  are  justly  criticised  for 
their  manner.  Many  tenements  are  owned  by  men, 
who,  though  the  owners,  are  only  on  a  slightly  dif 
ferent  scale  socially  from  their  tenants.  They  are 
men,  who,  by  great  shrewdness  or  some  fortunate 
chance,  accumulated  enough  to  make  a  real  estate 
investment  in  their  own  ward.  Naturally,  they 
being  familiar  with  the  circumstances  of  their  ten 
ants  and  having  a  remnant  of  neighborly  feeling  for 
them,  are  more  easily  influenced. 

Many  blocks  of  tenements  were  then  and  are  now 
owned  by  large  estates.  The  management  of  these 
buildings  is  entrusted  to  real  estate  agents,  who  re 
ceive  a  commission  on  their  collections,  or  to  salaried 
representatives,  who  owe  their  position  to  the  fac 
ulty  of  keeping  rents  up  and  keeping  repairs  down. 
These  are  the  men  who  are  hated  by  the  poor. 

It  is  said  corporations  have  no  souls,  why  then 
should  a  large  estate,  surely  a  corporation,  have 
one?  And  there  must  be  a  soul  to  understand,  to 

17 


My  Mamie  Rose. 

feel  the  woe,  the  pleading  that  comes  to  it  in  halt 
ing,  sob-broken  speech.  How,  then,  is  one  whose 
feeling  is  long  ago  calloused  by  the  repetition  of 
these  tales  of  misery,  to  be  stirred  to  more  than  a 
sneer  by  another  variation  of  the  old,  old  wail: 
"Have  pity  on  us  this  once,  we  are  so  poor,  so  ill, 
so  miserable." 

Here  the  poor  could  be  reproached  for  shiftless- 
ness  in  household  matters,  for  not  practising  suffi 
ciently  the  principles  of  economy.  The  reproach 
would  be  perfectly  justified  and  would  touch  one  of 
the  most  potent  causes  for  the  existing  conditions 
among  the  poor.  No  one  lives  more  lavishly  and 
knows  less  how  to  save  than  the  poor.  Their  ex 
pense  account  is  not  based  on  a  sanitary  or  monetary 
basis,  but  shapes  itself  according  to  temporary  in 
come. 

"Plenty  of  money  in  the  house"  and  rent  day  far 
in  the  distance,  and  many  families  will  absolutely 
gorge  themselves  at  table  with  food  and  drink,  only 
to  return  on  perhaps  the  very  next  day  to  tea  and 
dry  bread. 

For  this  reason  no  social  movements  on  the  East 
Side  are  worthier  of  hearty  support  than  those  car 
ried  on  to  teach  children,  and  especially  girls,  "How 
to  keep  house."  Teach  them  how  to  keep  house, 
and  they  will  make  homes. 

18 


The  Kid  of  the  Tenement. 

If  rent  days  are  the  fearful  anticipations  of  tene 
ment  house  life,  meals  and  their  preparation  are  the 
pleasurable  anticipations  of  it.  At  morning,  noon 
and  evening  the  smells  of  cooking  and  frying  waft 
from  the  open  doors  of  the  apartments  into  the  halls. 
The  doors  are  open  for  two  reasons — for  ventila 
tion  and  to  "show"  the  neighbors  that  more  than 
the  tea  kettle  is  bubbling  away  on  the  range.  Be 
hind  the  closed  doors  there  is  no  feast,  just  the  tea 
and  the  bread  and  scheming  how  to  explain  this 
unwelcome  fact  to  the  neighbors. 

My  mother  found  her  best  hold  on  her  husband's 
affections  by  catering  to  his  appetite,  which  was  one 
of  the  marvels  of  the  neighborhood.  When  work 
ing  he  was  very  exacting  in  the  choice  and  prepara 
tion  of  his  food ;  so,  when  idle  his  wife  would  strive 
still  harder  to  cheer  him  into  better  humor  by  culi 
nary  feats. 

Besides  this  promiscuous  cooking,  there  were 
mending,  washing,  darning  and  other  housework 
to  be  looked  after,  and  little  time  was  left  for  sen 
timent  toward  me  beyond  an  occasional  affectionate 
pat  on  the  head. 

Now,  take  the  mind,  the  heart  of  a  child,  and  then 
consider  the  influence  of  such  a  barren  existence 
on  it.  A  child  can  do  without  coddling — yes,  most 
boys  do  not,  or  pretend  not  to  like  it — but  a  child's 

19 


My  Mamie  Rose. 

heart,  sensitive  as  no  other,  hungers  for  a  wealth 
of  affection. 

The  child,  a  little  ape,  finding  no  outlet  for  his 
willing  response  to  affection,  seeks  a  field  of  mental 
activity  in  imitating  the  adults  about  him.  And 
the  models  and  patterns  in  tenement  spheres  are 
not  those  a  child  should  imitate.  All  conditions 
there  are  primitive.  To  eat,  drink,  sleep  and  be 
clothed  are  the  aims  of  life  there,  leaving  but  a 
small  margin  for  emotions. 

The  forms  of  expression  are  also  primitive  and 
accepted.  The  worthy  housewife,  who,  in  a  mo 
ment  of  anger  at  her  husband's  mellow  state,  should 
vent  her  feelings  in  an  outburst  of  more  emphatic 
than  polite  language,  will  not  lose  caste  thereby,  but 
will  be  told  by  sympathetic  fellow-sufferers  that 
"She  did  just  right." 

Among  the  men  it  is  considered  an  indication  of 
effeminacy  or  dudeism  to  utter  one  sentence  without 
profanity.  To  be  deemed  manly  one  must  curse  and 
swear.  Even  terms  of  endearment  are  prefaced  with 
an  unintentionally  opposite  preamble. 

There,  not  yet  mentioning  the  other  detrimental 
defects  of  environment,  the  child  grows  up,  and 
then,  when  in  the  manhood  days  this  foundation, 
faulty  and  vicious,  breaks  and  crumbles  to  pieces 
and  leaves  naught  but  a  being  condemned  by  society 


20 


MR.   KILDARE'S  BIRTHPLACE  IN   CATHARINE    ST. 
The  Star  marks  the  window  of  the  Kildare  Tenement. 


The  Kid  of  the  Tenement. 

and  law,  and  seemingly  by  God,  there  is  an  army 
ready  to  pelt  this  creature,  cursed  by  its  own  ex 
istence,  with  law,  justice  and  punishment,  but  not 
with  one  iota  of  the  spirit  which  even  now,  in  our 
matter-of-fact  days,  echoes  the  grandest  message, 
"He  is  thy  brother." 

Such  was  the  setting  of  the  stage  on  which  the 
drama  of  my  childhood  began.  The  part  I  played  in 
it  was  not  very  interesting. 

An  adult  man  or  woman  can  do  with  a  mini 
mum  of  space,  but  a  child  must  have  much  of  it. 
To  romp  and  play  and  scheme  some  mischief  re 
quires  lots  of  room,  and  there  being  not  an  inch 
of  room  to  spare  in  tenement  apartments,  the  chil 
dren  in  summer  and  winter  claim  the  street  as 
their  very  own  realm. 

It  is  bad  that  it  is  so,  for  there  is  much  in  the 
street  which  is  of  physical  and  moral  danger  to 
the  child.  Hardly  a  day  passes  without  having  a 
boy  or  girl  hurt  by  some  passing  vehicle.  It  is 
almost  impossible  to  guard  against  these  accidents. 
The  drivers  are  careful.  No  one  can  make  me  be 
lieve  that  these  men  would  wantonly  drive  into  a 
swarm  of  playing  children,  but  there  are  so  many, 
so  many. 

Convince  yourself  of  this.  You  need  not  hare  to 
travel  very  far.  Take  any  street,  east  or  west  of  the 

31 


My  Mamie  Rose. 

Bowery,  and  the  young  generation,  crowding  before 
your  very  feet  or  jostling  against  you  in  innocent 
play,  will  tell  you  more  effectively  than  my  pen 
could  of  what  the  real  need  of  the  East  Side  is. 

But  then  parks  and  play  grounds  do  not  bring 
rentals ;  tenement  houses  do,  and,  further,  even  the 
child-life  of  those  districts  is  dependent  on  the 
whims  of  our  patriotic  ward  politicians. 

Among  the  very  poor — and  my  parents  were  of 
that  class — it  is  the  custom  to  send  out  the  children 
to  pick  up  wood  and  coal  for  the  fire.  My  mother, 
being  constantly  engaged  in  looking  after  the  wel 
fare  of  my  father,  had  not  very  much  time  to  spare 
on  me,  and  I  grew  up  very  much  by  myself. 

Even  before  it  had  become  my  duty  to  "go  out 
for  coal,"  I  loved  to  take  my  basket  and  make  my 
way  to  the  river  front  to  pick  up  bits  of  coal  dropped 
in  unloading  from  the  canal  boats  or  by  too  gener 
ously  filled  carts. 

Among  my  playmates  I  held  a  very  unimportant 
position,  being  neither  very  popular  nor  unpopular. 
I  did  not  mind  this  much,  as  I  felt,  instinctively, 
that  something  was  wrong  and  that  I  was  not  on  a 
level  footing  with  them.  It  is  impossible  for  me  to 
explain  why  I  felt  so  at  the  time,  but  I  can  dis 
tinctly  remember  that  quite  often  I  felt  myself  en 
tirely  isolated. 

22 


The  Kid  of  the  Tenement 

No  one  minded  me  or  censured  me  for  my  long 
absences  from  home,  provided  my  basket  was  fairly 
well  filled  with  coal.  Then  spells  of  envy  often 
came  to  me.  I  envied  the  caresses  given  by  mothers 
to  their  sons  and,  yes,  I  also  envied  the  cuffs  given 
to  them  for  having  spent  too  much  time  at  the  retail 
coal  business. 

I  reasoned  so  then  and  I  reason  so  now,  that  be 
hind  every  whipping  given  to  a  child  a  father's  or 
mother's  love  and  justice  is  hidden.  But  even 
parental  chastisement  was  denied  me — a  fact  for 
which,  according  to  popular  opinion,  I  should  have 
been  thankful. 

In  this  way  I  lived  the  dull  life  of  a  tenement 
house  child,  made  more  dull  in  my  case  by  the  lack 
of  a  certain  inexplicable  something  in  my  relations 
to  my  parents  and  in  my  home  conditions.  I  missed 
something,  yet  could  not  tell  what  it  was. 

It  can  hardly  be  termed  a  hidden  sorrow,  but 
make  a  boy  ponder  and  worry  about  something,  for 
which  no  explanation  is  vouchsafed  to  him,  and  he 
will  get  himself  into  a  mental  state  not  at  all  healthy 
for  his  years. 

Close  to  the  cooking  range  was  an  old  box  used 
as  a  receptacle  for  wood  and  coal.  There  was  my 
seat,  and  from  there  I  watched  the  little  domestic 


My  Mamie  Rose. 

comedies  and  tragedies  played  before  me  with  my 
father  and  mother  as  chief  actors. 

My  father's  popularity  made  our  home  the  calling 
place  for  many  visitors.  At  these  visits  the  most 
frequently  used  utensil  was  the  "can,"  or  "growler," 
and  the  functions  usually  assumed  the  character  of 
an  "ink  pot."  Several  houses  in  the  ward  had  well 
proven  reputations  as  "mixed  ale  camps,"  meaning 
thereby  places  where  certain  cronies  could  meet 
nightly  and  "rush  the  growler"  as  long  as  the 
money  lasted.  If  the  friends  were  more  than  usually 
plentiful,  the  whisky  bottle,  called  always  the  "bot 
tle,"  besides  the  "can,"  was  kept  well  filled,  pro 
ducing  a  continuation  of  effects,  sometimes  running 
to  fighting ;  at  other  times  running  to  maudlin  senti 
mentality.  These  occasions — no  one  knows  why — 
are  called  "ink  pots." 

My  father's  house  was  in  a  fair  way  to  become 
listed  among  the  well  established  "mixed  ale 
camps."  In  those  days  no  law  had  yet  been  passed 
making  the  selling  of  "pints"  of  beer  to  minors  a 
punishable  offense,  and  children  of  both  sexes  were 
employed  until  late  in  the  night,  when  the  bar-rooms 
were  crowded  with  drunken  and  boisterous  men, 
to  "rush  the  growler"  for  their  seniors  at  home. 
The  children  did  not  object  to  it,  as  a  few  pennies 
were  always  given  to  them  for  the  errand. 

24 


The  Kid  of  the  Tenement. 

I,  also,  had  to  make  these  journeys  to  the  nearest 
saloon,  and,  also,  did  not  mind  it  for  the  above  men 
tioned  reason.  Sometimes,  after  returning  from 
my  trip,  a  man  would  ask  me  to  sing  him  one  of  the 
popular  songs  of  the  day,  but  I  would  refuse  with 
the  diffidence  of  a  boy.  My  father  never  missed 
these  opportunities  to  inform  his  friends  that  "that 
brat  ain't  good  for  nothing.  Don't  bother  with 
him." 

I  began  to  dislike  my  foster  father,  rather  than 
hate  him.  More  than  once  I  met  his  casual  glance 
with  a  bitter  scowl. 


A  PAIR  OF  SHOES. 


CHAPTER  II. 

A    PAIR     OF     SHOES. 

IT  was  winter,  still.  I  was  running  about  bare 
footed.  This  was  preferred  by  me  to  having  my 
feet  shod  with  the  old  shoes  of  my  mother.  She 
had  a  small  foot,  yet  her  old  shoes  were  miles  too 
large  for  me,  and  furthermore,  always  made  me 
the  butt  of  the  jeers  and  jibes  of  my  playmates  in 
the  street.  Therefore,  I  never  wore  the  cast-off 
shoes  unless  snow  or  ice  was  on  the  ground. 

But  whether  bare-footed  or  slouching  along  in 
my   unwieldy   cast-offs,   the   comments   became   so 
personal  that  I  resolved  to  ask  my  father  for  a  pair' 
of  real,  new  shoes. 

The  moment  for  presenting  my  petition  anent  the 
new  shoes  was  ill  chosen. 

My  father  was  experiencing  a  period  of  idleness, 
and  had  reached  that  intense  state  of  feeling  which 
prompted  him  to  declare  with  much  banging  on  the 
table  that  "there  wasn't  an  honest  day's  work  to  be 
got  no  more,  at  all,  by  an  honest,  decent,  laboring 

29 


My  Mamie  Rose. 

man."  At  the  moment  my  mother  was  deeply  en 
gaged  in  the  task  of  mollifying  her  husband's  irasci 
bility  by  preparing  some  marvelous  feat  of  cooking, 
and  was  not  at  liberty  to  give  me  her  most  essential 
moral  support. 

My  request  was  received  in  silence.  It  was  an 
ominous  silence,  but  I  did  not  realize  it. 

I  insisted. 

"I  want  a  pair  of  shoes  all  to  myself,  the  same  as 
other  boys  have." 

"Oh,  is  it  shoes  you  want?  New  shoes?  Shoes 
that  cost  money,  when  there  ain't  enough  money 
in  the  house  to  get  a  man  a  decent  meal.  I'll  give 
you  shoes ;  indeed  I  will." 

Still  I  insisted.  Then  that  which,  perhaps,  should 
have  happened  to  me  long  before,  was  inflicted  upon 
me.  I  was  beaten  for  the  first  time,  to  be  beaten 
often  and  often  again  afterward. 

The  whipping  roused  my  temper.  From  a  safe 
distance  I  upbraided  my  father  for  punishing  me  for 
demanding  that  which  all  children  have  a  right  to 
demand  from  their  parents,  to  be  properly  clothed. 
This  incited  his  humor;  but,  after  his  laugh  had 
ended,  he  told  me  in  the  most  direct  and  blunt  way 
of  my  status  in  the  family,  and  also  informed  me 
that  if  he  felt  so  disposed  he  could  at  any  time  kick 
me  into  the  street,  where  I,  by  right,  belonged. 

30 


A  Pair  of  Shoes. 

Without  mincing  his  words  he  told  me  the  story 
of  my  parentage.  At  least,  he  told  me  that  I  was 
no  better  than  an  orphan,  picked  from  the  gutter, 
and  kept  alive  by  the  good  nature  of  himself  and  his 
wife. 

It  was  all  true. 

In  the  days  to  follow  I  learned  more  and  more 
about  my  parents  from  the  legendary  lore  of  neigh 
borly  gossip.  And  even  he,  my  foster-father,  could 
say  naught  but  good  about  my  father  and  mother, 
if  he  did  hate  their  son. 

No,  I  should  not  say  he  hated  me.  Patrick  Mc- 
Shane  had  a  good  heart,  but  permitted  it  too  often 
to  be  poisoned  by  the  poison  of  the  can  and  bottle. 

All  I  know  about  my  own  father  is  that  he  was  a 
typical  son  of  the  Emerald  Isle.  Rollicking,  care 
free,  ever  ready  with  song  or  story,  he  was  a  uni 
versal  favorite  during  his  sojourn  in  the  ward  where 
he  had  made  a  home  for  himself  and  his  wife  for 
the  short  time  from  his  arrival  in  this  country  until 
his  death. 

A  few  years  ago  I  had  the  pleasure  of  meeting 
the  owner  of  the  building  where  our  home  had  been 
and  where  I  was  born.  In  spite  of  his  old  age,  he 
still  remembered  my  father. 

"Do  you  know,  my  boy,  your  father  was  a  fine 
man?  The  same  as  any  man,  who  lets  nice  apart- 

31 


My  Mamie  Rose. 

ments  to  tenants,  I  had  to  see  that  rents  were 
regularly  paid,  and  I  always  did  that  without  being 
any  too  hard  on  them.  But  it  was  all  different  with 
your  father.  There  were  a  few  times  when  his  rent 
was  either  short  a  few  dollars  or  not  there  at  all, 
but  before  I  had  the  chance  to  get  angry  he'd  tell 
me  a  story  or  sing  me  a  ditty,  and  instead  o'  being 
mad  I'd  leave  and  forget  all  about  my  rent.  Ah, 
indeed,  Owney,  boy,  a  fine  man  was  your  father." 

Not  much  of  an  eulogy,  but  much,  very  much,  to 
me,  the  son.  I  have  nothing,  no  likeness,  no  photo 
graph,  to  help  my  mind's  eye  see  my  parents ;  and, 
therefore,  any  tribute,  no  matter  how  trifling,  paid 
to  the  memory  of  my  father  and  mother  goes  toward 
perfecting  the  picture  of  them,  fashioning  in  my 
soul. 

My  mother  was  a  French  woman,  who  married 
my  father  shortly  before  departing  for  this  country 
from  France,  where  he  had  gone  to  study  art.  They 
knew  very  little  of  her  in  the  district.  All  her  life 
seemed  to  be  centered  in  her  husband,  and  she  was 
rarely  seen  out  of  her  own  rooms.  The  only  breath 
ing  spells  she  ever  enjoyed  were  had  on  the  roof — 
quite  convenient  to  the  top  floor,  where  the  home 
was — and  there  she  would  get  a  whiff  of  fresh  air, 
to  the  accompaniment  of  one  of  my  dad's  songs. 

Why  could  I  not  know  them  ? 
32 


A  Pair  of  Shoes. 

Not  being  amply  provided  with  funds,  my 
parents,  shortly  after  their  arrival  in  this  country, 
were  compelled  to  take  apartments  on  the  top  floor 
of  the  tenement  house  in  Catharine  street,  where 
I  was  born. 

My  mother  died  at  my  birth ;  my  father  had  pre 
ceded  her  by  three  months. 

Sad  is  the  fate  of  a  baby  orphaned  in  a  tenement 
house.  Each  family  has  little,  and  many  to  subsist 
on  it. 

But  I,  the  orphaned  babe,  was  singularly  fortu 
nate. 

Even  the  lives  of  the  poor  are  not  devoid  of  ro 
mance,  and,  owing  to  one,  I  found  a  home. 

Not  so  very  long  before  my  parents  made  their 
domicile  in  the  Fourth  Ward,  Patrick  McShane,  one 
of  the  most  popular  and  finest  looking  young  men 
of  the  neighborhood,  had  "gone  to  the  bad."  He 
had  neglected  his  work  to  share  in  the  many  social 
festivities — otherwise,  "mixed  ale  camps" — until  his 
sober  moments  were  very  few  and  far  between. 

As  soon  as  his  status  of  confirmed  drunkard  was 
established,  he  was  not  as  welcome  as  formerly  at 
the  many  gatherings.  The  reason  for  it  was  his 
irascible  temper  while  under  the  influence  of  drink. 

Finding  himself  partly  ostracized,  he  kept  to  the 


33 


My  Mamie  Rose. 

water  front,  spending  his  days  and  nights  down 
there. 

Facing  the  river  is  South  street.  At  one  of  the 
corners  was  the  gin  mill  and  legislative  annex  of  a 
true  American  patriot  and  assemblyman.  Always 
anxious  to  pose  before  his  constituents  as  a  man 
whose  charity  knew  no  bounds,  this  diplomat,  this 
statesman,  had  given  a  home  to  his  niece,  the  daugh 
ter  of  his  deceased  brother.  Perhaps  it  was  just  a 
coincidence  that,  on  the  same  day,  on  which  his 
niece  became  a  member  of  the  household  the  servant 
girl  was  discharged. 

At  any  rate,  Mary  McNulty  found  little  time  to 
walk  the  sidewalks  of  Catharine  street,  as  was  the 
wont  of  the  belles  of  the  ward.  Even  would  she 
have  had  the  time  for  it,  she  would  not  have  availed 
herself  of  it,  for  one  very  good  reason.  Mary  Mc 
Nulty  was  not  beautiful. 

During  her  first  few  weeks  in  the  neighborhood 
she  had  been  quickly  christened  "wart-face"  by 
the  boys  on  her  appearance  in  the  street,  and,  while 
not  supersensitive,  she  determined  to  forego  the 
pleasure  of  being  a  target  for  these  personal  com 
ments. 

Thereafter,  she  only  left  the  house  at  nightfall 
to  walk  down  to  the  end  of  the  pier  opposite  to  the 
gin  mill  of  her  uncle.  During  one  of  these  nocturnal 

34  « 


A  Pair  of  Shoes. 

rambles  she  met  Patrick  McShane.  He  was  lying 
in  drunken  stupor  on  the  very  edge  of  the  dock,  and 
in  danger  of  losing  his  balance.  Mary  woke  him  up, 
lectured  him  and  then  gave  him  money.  Before 
sending  him  away,  she  told  him  to  be  there  on  the 
following  evening. 

Regular  meetings  were  soon  in  order,  and  it  was 
not  long  before  Mary  conceived  the  idea  of  reform 
ing  Patrick  McShane. 

McShane  was  willing,  and,  one  day  the  entire 
ward  was  startled  into  unusual  surprise  by  hearing 
of  the  marriage  of  Patrick  McShane  and  Mary  Mc- 
Nulty. 

To  give  credit  where  credit  is  due,  it  must  be 
recorded  that  McShane,  for  quite  a  while,  inspired 
by  the  devotion  of  his  wife,  improved  wonderfully 
in  his  habits  and  walked  along  the  narrow  road  of 
sobriety  with  nary  a  stumble.  But,  after  about  a 
year  of  wedded  life,  he  permitted  himself  occasional 
relapses  into  the  old  ways,  multiplying  them  in  time. 

It  is  hard  to  tell  if  all  the  hope  of  his  ultimate 
reformation  died  out  in  the  heart  of  his  wife.  She 
became  very  quiet,  catering  more  carefully  to  his 
creature  comforts  and  never  offering  any  remon 
strance. 

But  there  must  have  been  a  void,  a  yearning  to 
receive  and  to  give  a  little  affection,  and  when  "the 

35 


My  Mamie  Rose. 

lady  in  front" — my  mother — died  and  left  her 
orphan,  Mary  McShane  would  not  let  it  go  to  the 
"institution,"  but  took  it  into  her  own  humble  home. 

And  for  this  dear  little  woman,  whose  entire  life 
was  one  of  self-sacrifice,  devotion  and  humiliation, 
a  prayer  goes  from  me  at  every  thought  of  her. 

It  can  hardly  be  expected  that  I,  a  boy  of  seven 
years  of  age,  grasped  the  full  significance  of  the 
information  imparted  by  my  foster  father.  Only 
two  points  appeared  very  grave  to  me.  Should  the 
fact  become  known  to  my  playmates  that  I  was  an 
orphan — not  distinguished  from  a  foundling  by 
them — and  that  I  had  sailed,  so  to  speak,  under  false 
colors,  my  fate  would  have  been  one  full  of  persecu 
tion  and  sneering  contempt.  I  silently  prayed  and 
then  beseeched  my  foster  mother  to  keep  the  matter 
a  profound  secret. 

The  other  point  of  importance  was  that  the  street, 
"where  I,  by  right,  belonged,"  assumed  a  new  aspect. 
Having  had  plenty  of  evidence  of  the  impulsive 
spirit  which  ruled  our  household,  something  seemed 
to  tell  me  that  it  was  not  improbable  that  the  threat 
of  my  expulsion  would  be  fulfilled,  and  I  began  to 
consider  my  ultimate  fate  from  all  sides. 

The  bootblacks  and  newsboys  and  other  young 
chaps,  who  were  making  their  precarious  living  in 
the  streets,  became  personages  of  great  interest  to 

36 


A  Pair  of  Shoes. 

me.  I  watched  their  ways,  and  even  found  myself 
calculating  their  receipts.  It  was  quite  clear  to 
me  that,  should  my  foster  father  drive  me  from  the 
house,  I  should  have  to  resort  to  some  makeshift 
living  in  the  streets. 

All  this  put  me  in  a  preoccupied  state  of  mind, 
which  does  not  sit  naturally  on  a  child.  I  became 
more  quiet  than  ever,  and,  in  the  evening,  from  the 
wood  box  behind  the  cooking  range,  watched  our 
home  proceedings.  Most  times  they  were  very 
noisy,  and  my  quietness  seemed  to  grate  on  the  ears 
of  him  whom  I  had  ceased  to  call  "father,"  and  was 
then  addressing  more  formally  as  "Mr.  McShane," 
which  also  annoyed  him. 

Can  you  not  read  here  between  the  lines  and  un 
derstand  how  a  certain  something  became  more 
and  more  stifled  within  me?  Perhaps  I  was  un 
reasonable  or  lacking  in  gratitude,  but  I  was  a  child 
and  still  hungered  and  hungered  and  longed  for  that 
which,  as  yet,  had  not  come  into  my  share. 

But  if  Mr.  McShane  would  not  listen  to  my  plea 
for  shoes,  my  good,  dear  "mum"  had  heard  my 
request  and  understood  the  motive  of  my  insistence. 
Happily,  children's  shoes  do  not  involve  enormous 
expenditure,  and  so,  on  a  certain  eventful  day, 
"mum"  went  to  her  savings  bank,  the  proverbial 
stocking,  took  the  larger  part  of  it  and  made  me  the 

37 


My  Mamie  Rose. 

proud  possessor  of  a  pair  of  real,  new  shoes,  the 
first  of  my  life.  Bitterness,  sulking  and  wailing 
were  all  forgotten  and  wiped  away  as  if  by  magic, 
and  my  feet,  in  their  new  casings,  seemed  to  step 
on  golden  rays  of  sunshine.  If  I  add  to  this  that 
I  had  never  had  a  toy  of  any  kind  you  will  be  able 
to  measure  my  sensation. 

The  real,  new  shoes  were  not  an  altogether  free 
gift.  It  had  been  agreed  between  "mum"  and  me 
that  I  was  to  pay  the  equivalent  for  them  by  in 
creased  collectibility  in  the  retail  coal  business. 

The  following  day  saw  me  starting  out  for  the 
coal  docks  with  the  very  best  of  intentions.  I  be 
gan  to  fear  that  we  would  not  be  able  to  find  room 
for  all  the  coal  I  meant  to  carry  home  that  day. 
Tons  of  coal  began  to  heap  themselves  in  my  vision, 
until,  perchance,  my  eyes  fell  on  the  real,  new  shoes. 

It  became  my  unavoidable  duty  to  let  my  footgear 
be  seen. 

Many  detours  were  made,  and  so  much  time  was 
wasted  in  exhibiting  my  shoes  to  the  thrilling  envy 
of  my  comrades  that  the  accumulation  of  coal  suf 
fered  in  consequence.  The  awakening  from  my 
dream  of  glory  came  with  the  end  of  the  day,  when  it 
required  all  my  remaining  buoyant  spirits  to  nerve 
me  for  my  reception  at  home. 

The  coal  basket  was  dreadfully  light. 
38 


A  Pair  of  Shoes. 

My  home  coming  was  very  ill-timed.  Mr. 
McShane  was  in  the  throes  of  another  idle  period, 
which  did  not  preclude  credit  at  the  neighboring 
saloons.  Had  there  been  "company"  I  might  have 
been  able  to  escape  his  wrath,  but,  having  sat  there 
all  alone — that  is,  without  male  companionship — 
and  his  wife  never  daring  to  reply  to  his  sarcastic 
flings,  I  was  just  the  red  rag  for  the  bull. 

"Ah,  and  so  you're  home  at  last?  Mary,  have 
you  no  hot  supper  ready  for  this  young  gentleman, 
after  him  being  hungry  from  working  so  hard  at 
getting  about  ten  pieces  of  coal  ?  Oh,  and  new  shoes 
are  we  wearing  now,  ain't  that  nice!"  Then,  with 
a  quick  change  of  tone  and  manner,  "Come  here, 
you  brat,  come  here  to  me !" 

"Leave  the  boy  alone,  Pat !"  interposed  "mum," 
but  I  knew,  as  she  did,  that  it  was  futile. 

I  have  no  difficulty  in  remembering  it  all.  In  a 
dull,  heavy  way  I  felt  that  the  crisis  had  come. 

At  the  ending  of  the  scene,  my  shoes,  my  real, 
new  shoes,  were  torn  from  my  feet.  Everything 
within  me  rebelled  against  that.  Life  without  those 
shoes  was  not  worth  living,  and  I  stormed  myself 
into  a  frenzy,  which  did  not  leave  me  until  I  found 
myself,  propelled  by  a  swift  leg  movement,  on  the 
floor  of  the  dark  hallway — minus  my  shoes. 

The  long  expected  had  come.     I   had  thought 

39 


My  Mamie  Rose. 

myself  prepared  for  this  moment,  yet  found  my 
self  stunned  and  bewildered.  What  was  I  to  do? 
The  street  "where  I  belonged"  now  seemed  to  be 
long  to  me,  but  I  did  not  look  quite  as  stoically  as 
before  at  the  prospect  before  me. 

"Besides,  how  can  I  go  out  without  shoes  ?"  I  rea 
soned,  forgetting  the  fact  that,  only  quite  recently, 
shoes  had  become  necessities  to  me. 

But  the  truth  was — and  will  you  blame  me? — 
that  from  the  crack  at  the  bottom  of  the  door  came 
a  tiny  streak  of  light,  which  told  a  vivid  tale  of  all 
I  was  in  danger  of  forfeiting.  How  often  I  had 
growled  at  my  fate;  now,  behind  that  door,  lay  a 
paradise. 

I  crouched  there  in  the  dark  corner  of  the  stairs 
leading  to  the  roof.  How  long  I  shivered  there  I 
do  not  know.  All  my  senses  were  alert  and  ready 
for  the  slightest  alarm.  Once  I  heard  pleading  and 
emphatic  denial  within,  and  then  all  was  still — stiil 
for  a  long  while. 

My  gaze  was  fixed  on  the  door.  It  seemed  hours 
— perhaps  it  was — before  I  heard  a  slight  creaking 
and  saw  the  reflection  of  more  light  on  the  hallway 
floor.  It  disappeared  as  quickly  as  it  had  appeared, 
and  then  it  was  dark  and  quiet  again. 

But  why  was  that  door  opened?  Something 
must  have  h?^pened.  I  dragged  myself  to  the 

40 


A  Pair  of  Shoes. 

threshold  of  my  lost  home,  felt  around  and  found 
— my  shoes,  my  real,  new  shoes.  And  then  I  tried 
hard  to  cry,  but  could  not.  The  crust  had  become 
too  hardened. 

The  crisis  had  come,  was  passed,  and  the  curtain 
fell  on  my  childhood.  Agres  cannot  be  measured 
by  years. 


A  NOMAD  OF  THE  STREETS. 


CHAPTER  III. 

A  NOMAD  OF  THE  STREETS. 

SEVEN  years  old,  I  stepped  into  the  street,  where, 
by  right,  I  belonged,  no  longer  a  child,  to  begin  the 
journey,  which,  through  many  years  in  the  valley, 
led  me  to  the  heights. 

It  was  a  bleak  December  night. 

Can  you  not  draw  yourself  the  picture  of  the 
boy  starting  on  his  way — whither  ? 

I  stood  for  some  time  in  the  doorway.  A  police 
man  loomed  in  the  distance.  Boys  cannot  bear 
them  in  day  time,  how  much  less  at  night.  To  be 
"collared"  by  a  "cop"  at  this  hour  meant  a  stay  in 
the  station  house  and  a  visit  to  the  police  court.  I 
put  myself  in  motion. 

With  cap  pulled  over  my  ears  and  hands  pushed 
into  my  pockets,  I  started  in  the  direction  of  the 
Bowery  and  Chatham  'Street,  now  called  Park  Row. 
I  halted  under  a  lamp-post  to  determine  on  my 
course. 

"Uptown"  was  an  entirely  unknown  region  to 

45 


My  Mamie  Rose. 

me.  "Downtown"  was  not  much  more  familiar, 
but,  somehow,  I  knew  that  that  was  the  place  where 
all  the  newsboys  came  from. 

I  turned  to  the  left  and  walked  and  ran — the 
night  was  bitterly  cold — down  Chatham  street  until 
I  came  within  view  of  the  City  Hall.  So  far  I 
had  been  once  or  twice  before  on  some  adventurous 
trip,  but  not  beyond  that.  Though  I  did  not  realize 
it  at  the  time,  I  stood  on  my  jumpiiig-off  place, 
ready  to  jump  into  the  unknown. 

I  paused  for  a  while,  looking  into  the  darkness 
before  me.  In  those  days,  before  the  completion 
of  the  Brooklyn  Bridge,  City  Hall  Square  was  not 
as  brilliantly  lighted  as  now.  I  stood  there  until 
the  biting  cold  made  me  move  on. 

My  eyes  were  watery  from  the  meeting  blasts, 
and,  stumbling  on,  I  almost  fell  on  top  of  a  layer  of 
diminutive  humanity.  Before  I  had  time  to  draw 
my  stiffened  hands  from  the  pockets  to  wipe  my 
eyes,  I  felt  a  welcome  sensation  of  warmth,  thick, 
intense,  damp,  ink-permeated  warmth. 

The  warm  current  came  from  the  grating  over  the 
pressroom  of  a  newspaper.  This  open-air  radiator 
only  measured  a  few  feet,  yet,  at  least,  fifteen  boys 
were  hugging  it  as  closely  as  their  mothers'  breasts. 
The  iron  frame  was  entirely  invisible,  and  my 
share  of  warmth  coming  from  it  was  very  trifling. 

46 


A  Nomad  of  the  Streets. 

But,  even  so,  only  a  few  minutes  of  this  straggling 
cheer  was  afforded  to  me. 

Just  as  some  of  the  numbness  began  to  thaw  out 
of  my  limbs,  the  cry — ever  and  ever  familiar  to  the 
newsboy — "Cheese  it,  the  cop !"  rang  out,  and,  like 
a  horde  of  frightened  sprites,  the  boys  scampered 
away,  I  bringing  up  the  rear. 

We  raced  around  the  corner  into  Frankfort  street 
and  stopped  in  a  dark  hallway,  which  seemed  to 
be  the  headquarters  of  this  particular  crowd.  It 
was  not  warm  in  there,  but,  at  any  rate,  it  was  a 
shelter  against  the  cutting  gusts  of  night  winds, 
playing  their  stormy  games  of  "hide-and-seek" 
around  the  blocks  facing  Park  Row. 

Following  the  example  of  the  others,  I  cuddled 
up  in  a  corner,  and  tried  to  forget  my  troubles  in 
sleep.  Just  dozing,  preliminary  to  falling  into 
sounder  sleep,  I  was  suddenly  and  swiftly  aroused 
by  a  grasp  and  a  kick,  and  informed  that  I  had 
usurped  a  corner  "beeslonging"  to  a  habitue  of  this 
dismal  hostelry. 

I  had  yet  to  learn  that  a  newsboy  will  claim  every 
thing  in  sight,  to  relinquish  it  only  by  defeat  in 
fight,  and  meekly  submitted  to  my  dispossession. 
The  late  comer  took  a  bundle  of  newspapers  from 
under  his  arm  and  carefully  proceeded  to  prepare 
his  bed.  First,  he  spread  a  number  of  sheets  on 

47 


My  Mamie  Rose. 

the  floor;  then  built  a  pillow  from  the  major  part, 
and,  at  last,  proceeded  to  cover  himself  with  the  re 
maining  papers. 

The  light  was  dim,  still,  it  was  enough  to  show 
him  my  discomfiture. 

"Say,"  he  addressed  me,  "what's  the  matter,  ain't 
you  got  no  place  to  sleep?  I'll  tell  you  what  I'll  do. 
If  you  don't  kick  in  your  sleep,  I'll  let  you  lie  down 
longside  o'  me."  Then,  as  an  afterthought,  "It'll 
keep  me  warmer,  anyhow." 

Most  emphatically  and  impressively  did  I  assure 
him  that  my  sleep  was  absolutely  motionless,  and 
from  that  night  dated  a  partnership  and  friendship 
which  lasted  for  many  years. 

In  later  years  I  have  often  wondered  why  I  and 
all  the  other  boys  who  comprised  the  newspaper- 
selling  fraternity  of  that  day  always  landed  in  Park 
Row,  and  in  the  midst  of  the  future  colleagues?  It 
seemed  to  be  a  well  defined  destiny.  Behind  the 
coming  of  each  new  recruit  was  the  little  tragedy, 
which  had  made  the  leading  actor  therein  a  strav 
waif  of  the  streets.  And,  no  matter  where  the 
tragedy  had  happened,  whether  in  Harlem  or  in  the 
First  Ward,  the  district  along  and  above  the  Battery, 
they  all  found  their  way  to  Park  Row. 

The  life  of  the  newsboy  is  full  of  action.  His 
personal  struggle  and  business  is  so  absorbing  that 
4* 


A  Nomad  of  the  Street 

he  has  no  time  for  useless  speculation.  The  advent 
of  a  newcomer  is  not  signalized  by  a  very  warm 
reception.  He  is  neither  hampered  by  professional 
jealousy  or  suffered  by  tolerance.  The  field  is  open 
to  all,  and  it  rests  with  the  boy  how  he  will  fare. 
However,  in  spite  of  this  almost  essential  selfish 
ness,  impulsive  outbursts  of  good  nature  are  a  char 
acteristic  of  this  most  emotional  creature,  the  news 
boy.  My  apprenticeship  in  the  fraternity  owed  its 
beginning  to  one  of  these  spontaneous  outbursts. 

It  was  quite  early  when,  chilled  to  the  marrow,  I 
awoke  in  the  drafty  hallway.  My  new  and  inde 
pendent  existence  was  begun  with  my  first  great 
sorrow.  Here  the  temptation  is  very  strong  upon 
me  to  tell  you  that  remorse,  anguish  and  despair 
were  racking  my  soul ;  that  it  was  homesickness  or 
a  great  longing  for  all  I  had  left  behind  me.  But 
putting  this  temptation  behind  me,  I  must  confess 
that  my  sorrow  was  of  the  most  material  kind.  I 
missed  my  coffee. 

Across  the  street  was  Hitchcock's  coffee  and  cake 
saloon.  Through  the  shivery  morning  air,  every 
time  a  patron  entered  or  left  the  place,  a  cloud  of 
greasy,  spicy  aromas  came  wafting  to  the  frozen 
little  troupe  leaving  their  dreary  abiding  place.  My 
future  colleagues  had  so  often  had  this  torture  in 
flicted  on  them  that,  now,  with  just  an  envious  sniff, 

49 


My  Mamie  Rose. 

they  could  bear  it  with  stoical  fortitude.  I,  still  a 
weakling,  stopped,  as  if  transfixed,  inhaled  the  per 
fumed  currents  and  most  solemnly  swore  that,  with 
my  very  first  money,  I  would  buy  the  entire  stock; 
yes,  even  the  entire  coffee  and  cake  saloon. 

Alas,  Hitchcock's  is  still  doing  business. 

The  next  question  presenting  itself  was,  how  was 
I  to  get  the  "first"  money  ? 

Newsboys  work  and  play  in  cliques.  The  par 
ticular  gang,  with  which  I  had  thrown  my  lot,  had 
its  rendezvous  in  Theatre  Alley.  It  was  the  assem 
bling  and  meeting  place  for  all  the  members,  those 
who  had  slept  in  "regular"  beds  and  those  who  had 
"carried  the  banner"*  in  the  Frankfort  street  hall 
way.  This  distinction  did  by  no  means  establish 
two  different  social  strata  among  us.  Fate  was 
so  uncertain  that  the  aristocrat  of  the  night  before, 
who  had  rested  his  weary  limbs  on  a  "regular"  bed, 
was  very  apt  to  fight  on  the  following  night  for  the 
possession  of  the  corner  in  the  hallway,  which  "bees- 
longed"  to  him. 

Beyond  giving  me  a  scrutinizing  look,  none  of 
the  boys  took  heed  of  me,  and  did  not  object  to  my 
following  them.  Arrived  in  Theatre  Alley,  we  met 
the  leader  of  the  gang,  who  had  the  proud  distinc 
tion  of  being  about  the  only  one  who  had  a  "home 

*  To  spend  the  night  without  a  bed. 
50 


A  Nomad  of  the  Streets. 

to  go  to"  whenever  he  felt  like  doing  so.  The  same 
qualities,  which,  since  then,  have  made  him  a  leader 
in  politics  and  have  led  him  to  membership  in  legis 
lative  bodies,  were  even  in  that  day  in  evidence. 

In  parenthesis  let  me  say  that  I  am  not  blessed 
with  personal  beauty.  Add  to  this  that  my  appear 
ance  presented  itself  rather  grotesquely  and  dishev 
eled  on  that  eventful  morning,  and  you  will  un 
derstand  why  the  leader's  searching  eye  singled  me 
out  from  the  rest. 

"Are  you  a  new  one?"  he  asked  me. 

I  answered  in  the  affirmative. 

"Going  to  sell  papers?" 

Again  the  affirmative. 

"Got  any  money?" 

Now  a  convincing  negative. 

Then,  as  now,  our  leader  was  sparing  in  the  use 
of  words.  At  the  end  of  our  brief  interview,  I 
was  "staked"  to  a  nickel  to  buy  my  first  stock  of 
papers,  and  those  who  know  Tim  Sullivan  will  also 
know  that  I  was  not  the  first  or  the  last  to  get 
"staked"  by  the  Bowery  statesman. 

He  not  only  furnished  my  working  capital,  but 
also  taught  me  a  few  tricks  of  the  trade  and  advised 
me  to  invest  my  five  pennies  in  just  one,  the  best 
selling  paper  of  the  period. 

So,  in  less  than  twelve  hours  after  leaving  what 
51 


My  Mamie  Rose. 

had  been  for  several  years  my  home,  I  was  fully 
installed  as  a  vendor  of  newspapers. 

Then  began  the  usual  existence  of  "newsies," 
eating  and  "sleeping"  when  lucky,  and  "pulling 
through  somehow"  when  unlucky.  I  stuck  to  that 
business  for  over  ten  years. 

The  life  of  the  streets  did  not  at  all  disagree 
with  me.  My  childhood  had  been  full  of  bitterness, 
childish  bitterness,  and  I  had  a  dull  longing  to  make 
the  world  at  large  feel  my  revenge  for  having  dealt 
so  unkindly  with  me.  Whatever  good  traits  there 
had  been  in  me  were  quickly  and  willingly  trans 
formed  into  viciousness.  This  helped  me  to  become 
a  leading  member  of  our  gang  of  boys. 

Among  us  there  was  none  so  absolutely  orphaned 
as  myself.  Those  who  were  orphans  had,  at  least, 
their  memories.  I  did  not  even  have  them. 

In  odd,  emotional  moments,  one  or  another  would 
let  his  thoughts  stray  back  to  some  still  loved  and 
revered  father  or  mother,  or  would  confess  to 
having  crept  up  to  his  former  home,  at  some  safe 
time,  to  have  a  peep  at  forfeited  comforts.  I 
welcomed  these  references  and  day  dreams  of  my 
colleagues,  but  solely  because  they  were  utilized 
by  me  as  pretenses  for  inflicting  my  brutality  on 
those  who  had  uttered  them. 

There  is  a  question,  a  number  of  questions,  to  be 
52 


A  Nomad  of  the  Streets. 

asked  here.  Why  did  I  do  this?  Was  it  because 
I  was  naturally  vicious,  or  because  I  wanted  to  stifle 
a  certain  gnawing  in  my  heart  by  my  ferociousness  ? 

A  strange  reasoning,  the  last,  perhaps ;  but  in 
years  I  was  still  a  child,  and  if  a  child  has  but  little 
in  his  life  to  love,  and  that  little  is  taken  out  of  his 
life,  that  child  can  turn  into  a  veritable  little  demon. 
Those,  whom  I  had  believed  my  parents,  turned  out 
to  be  nothing  more  than  charitably  inclined  stran 
gers;  that  what  I  had  believed  to  be  my  home, 
proved  but  a  refuge,  and  my  boyish  logic  saw  in  this 
sufficient  cause  to  envy  those,  who  had  all  this  be 
hind  them  and  to  give  vent  to  this  envy  in  the  most 
ferocious  manner. 

That  was  the  tenor  of  my  life  as  a  newsboy.  I 
had  enough  callousness  to  bear  all  the  hardships 
without  a  murmur.  One  ambition  took  possession 
of  me.  I  wanted  to  be  a  power  among  newsboys. 
T  wanted  to  be  respected  or  feared.  As  I  did  not 
care  which,  I  succeeded  in  the  latter  at  the  expense 
of  the  former.  The  heroes  of  newsboys  are  always 
men  who  owe  their  prominence  to  physical  prowess. 
I  chose  as  my  models  the  best  known  fighters  of  the 
day. 

As  with  all  other  "business  men,"  there  is  keen 
rivalry  and  competition  among  newsboys.  The 
only  difference  is  that,  among  the  boys,  the  most 

53 


My  Mamie  Rose. 

primitive  and  direct  way  is  the  most  frequent  one 
employed  to  settle  disputes.  Some  men,  after  greai 
sorrows  or  disappointments,  seek  forgetfulness  in 
battle,  being  entirely  indifferent  to  their  ultimate 
fate,  and  they  always  make  good  fighters.  My 
position  was  not  altogether  dissimilar  from  theirs. 
What  little  I  had  known  of  comfort  and  affection 
was  behind  me ;  my  mode  of  life  at  that  time  had 
no  particular  attraction  for  me,  and  my  only  ambi 
tion  was  to  conquer  by  fight,  and,  therefore,  I  made 
a  good  fighter. 

In  all  those  long  years  I  cannot  recall  more  than 
one  incident  which  stirred  the  softer  emotions  of  my 
heart. 

A  newcomer,  a  blue-eyed,  light-haired  little  fel 
low,  had  come  among  us,  and  was  immediately 
chosen  by  me  as  my  favorite  victim.  Certain  traces 
of  refinement  were  discernible  in  him  and  this  gave 
me  many  opportunities  to  hold  him  up  to  the  ridi 
cule  of  our  choice  gang  of  young  ruffians.  I  hated 
him  without  knowing  why. 

One  day  I  saw  him  standing  at  the  corner  of 
"the  Row,"  offering  his  wares  with  the  unprofes 
sional  cry :  "Please,  won't  you  buy  a  paper?" 

It  was  a  glorious  chance  to  "plant"  a  kick  on  one 
of  his  shins,  and  thereby  to  relieve  myself  of  some  of 
my  hatred.  Stealthily  I  crept  up  behind  him,  and 

54 


A  Nomad  of  the  Streets. 

was  on  the  point  of  sending  my  foot  on  its  mission, 
when  two  motherly-looking  women  stopped  to  buy 
a  paper  from  "the  cherub."  Wits  are  quickly  sharp 
ened  in  a  life  on  the  streets,  and  I  realized  at  once 
that  my  intended  assault,  if  witnessed  by  the  two 
ladies,  would  evoke  a  storm  of  indignation. 

I  immediately  changed  front,  and  endeavored  to 
create  the  impression  that  my  hasty  approach  had 
been  occasioned  by  my  desire  to  sell  a  paper. 

"Poipers,  ladies,  poipers,"  I  cried,  but  was  barely 
noticed. 

The  "cherub"  claimed  all  their  attention. 

"What  a  pretty  boy!"  exclaimed  one  "Have 
you  no  home,  no  parents  ?  Too  bad,  too  bad  !" 

All  this  was  noted  and  registered  by  me  for  a 
future  reckoning  with  the  recipient  of  so  much  kind 
ness. 

My  heart  was  shivering  with  acid  bitterness. 

"Never  me,  never  me!"  and  the  misery  of  many 
loveless  years  rang  as  a  wail  in  my  soul. 

Just  as  the  woman,  who  had  spoken,  was  about 
to  hand  a  dime  to  my  intended  scapegoat,  her  com 
panion  happened  to  turn  and  see  me. 

"Oh,  just  look  at  the  other  poor  fellow." 

The  exclamation  was  justified.  I  was  a  sight. 
However,  my  dilapidated  clothes  and  scratched  face 


51 


My  Mamie  Rose. 

owed  their  pitiful  condition  to  much  "scrapping" 
and  not  to  deprivations. 

Again  she  spoke. 

"Here,  poor  boy,  here  is  a  penny  for  you." 

With  a  light  pat  on  my  grimy  cheek  and  one  of 
the  sunniest  smiles  ever  shed  on  me,  she  was  gone 
before  I  could  realize  what  had  happened.  There, 
penny  in  hand,  I  stood,  dreaming  and  stroking  the 
cheek  she  had  touched,  and  asking  myself  why  she 
had  done  so. 

Somehow,  I  felt  that,  were  she  to  come  back,  I 
could  just  have  said  to  her:  "Say,  lady,  I  ain't  got 
much  to  give,  but  I'll  .give  you  all  me  poipers,  and 
me  pennies,  and  me  knife,  if  you'll  only  say  and  do 
that  over  again." 

The  "cherub"  also  was  a  gainer  by  this  little 
touch  of  nature.  I  forgot  to  kick  and  abuse  him  that 
night. 

There  was  nothing  dwarfish  about  me,  and  my 
temperament  made  me  enjoy  the  many  "scraps" 
which  belong  to  a  street  arab's  routine. 

Park  Row  was  and  is  frequented  by  the  lesser 
lights  of  the  sporting  world.  Our  boyish  fights 
were  not  fought  in  seclusion,  but  anywhere.  Being 
a  constant  participant  in  these  "goes,"  as  I  was 
almost  daily  called  upon  to  defend  my  sounding 
title  of  "Newsboy  Champion  of  Park  Row"  against 

56 


A  Nomad  of  the  Streets. 

new  aspirants  for  the  honor,  myself  and  my  fight 
ing  "work"  soon  became  familiar  to  the  "sports/' 
who  were  the  most  interested  of  the  spectators. 

I  was  of  large  frame,  my  face  was  of  the  bulldog 
type,  my  muscles  were  strong,  my  constitution 
hardened  by  my  outdoor  existence  in  all  sorts  of 
weather,  and,  without  knowing  it,  my  advance  in 
the  art  of  fisticuffs  was  eagerly  watched,  with  the 
hope  of  discovering  in  me  a  new  "dark  horse"  for 
the  prize  ring. 

Among  the  men  who  had  followed  my  progress 
in  boxing  were  such  renowned  sports  as  Steve 
Brodie,  Warren  Lewis,  "Fatty"  Flynn,  "Pop" 
Kaiser  and  others  of  equal  prominence.  In  due 
time  overtures  were  made  to  me.  I  was  properly 
"tried  out"  on  several  third-rate  boxers,  and  said 
good-by  to  the  newsboy  life  to  blossom  out  as  a 
full-fledged  pugilist. 

Before  long  I  began  to  have  higher  ambitions. 
It  was  the  day  of  smaller  purses  and  more  fighting, 
and  I  determined  to  fight  often  so  as  to  accumulate 
money  quickly.  I  had  no  definite  idea  why  I 
wanted  to  accumulate  money  with  such  feverish 
haste.  I  had  some  dim  desire  to  wanting  to  have 
a  lot  of  it,  to  having  the  sensation  of  .being  the 
possessor  of  a  roll  of  bills,  and,  this  being  the  only 


My  Mamie  Rose. 

road  open  to  me  toward  that  goal,  I  was  eager  to 
travel  it 

That  was  my  ambition  at  the  age  of  seventeen, 
the  age  when  boys  prepare  themselves  to  be  men  in 
the  fullest  and  only  sense  of  the  word.  My  boy 
hood,  dreary  as  my  childhood,  closed  behind  me 
without  a  pang  of  regret  on  my  part.  I  was  aspir 
ing  according  to  my  lights  and  my  aspirations 
spelled  nothing  more  or  less  than  degradation. 


LIVING  BY  MY  MUSCLE. 


CHAPTER  IV. 

LIVING   BY    MY    MUSCLE. 

THE  manly  art  of  self-defense,  as  practised  then, 
was  unhampered  by  much  law  or  refinement.  Still, 
with  all  this  license,  I  was  too  brutish  to  make  a 
successful  prizefighter.  My  sponsor  in  this  sport 
ing  life  soon  learned  that  I  had  a  violent  temper. 

Time  and  time  again  I  was  matched  to  fight  men 
who  were  not  physically  my  equals,  only  to  be  de 
feated  by  them.  It  was  useless  to  endeavor  to  im 
press  me  with  the  argument  that  these  fighting 
matches  were  merely  business  engagements,  in  the 
same  way  as  the  playing  of  a  part  by  an  actor. 

I  fully  understood  all  that  was  pointed  out  to 
me;  would  adhere  to  my  instructions  for  two,  per 
haps  three,  rounds  of  fighting,  then  would  forget 
all,  rules,  time  limits  and  all  else,  to  "sail  in"  with 
most  deadly  determination  to  "do"  my  opponent  at 
all  hazards. 

During  my  brief  career  as  pugilist  I  only  met  one 
man  who  was  of  the  same  brutish  temperament  as 

61 


My  Mamie  Rose. 

myself — Tommy  Gibbons,  of  Pittsburg — and  we 
fought  four  encounters. 

Of  the  same  age  as  myself,  Gibbons  had  earned 
for  himself  a  well-founded  reputation  for  vicious- 
ness.  He  had  never  been  defeated  in  his  own  state, 
and  the  promoters  of  this  "manly"  form  of  sport 
were  anxious  to  find  a  more  vicious  brute  than  he 
to  vanquish  him. 

I  was  chosen  for  this  mission. 

A  paper  manufacturer,  still  doing  business  in 
New  York  City,  after  seeing  me  "perform"  in  trial 
bouts,  was  induced  to  "put  up"  the  necessary  money 
for  my  side  of  the  purse,  and  we  were  matched  to 
fight  in  Pittsburg. 

We  "weighed  in"  at  one  hundred  and  forty 
pounds. 

This,  our  first  encounter,  lasted  twenty-seven 
rounds.  The  "humanity"  of  our  seconds  and  back 
ers  prevented  us  from  going  any  further.  Our  phy 
sical  condition  was  the  cause  for  stirring  that  "hu 
manity." 

We  were  smeared  with  blood,  but  that  alone  would 
not  have  been  sufficient  to  terminate  the  fight.  A 
broken  arm,  a  torn  ear,  a  gash  from  eye  to  lower 
part  of  cheek,  constituted  Tommy  Gibbons'  princi 
pal  injuries.  I  was  damaged  to  the  extent  of  two 
broken  thumbs  and  a  broken  nose,  not  mentioning 

62 


Living  by  My  Muscle. 

minor  disfigurements.  But,  what  of  that?  Had 
not  the  noble  cause  of  sport  derived  a  new  impetus 
from  our  performance?  Had  not  the  hearts  and 
aspirations  of  the  "select"  crowd  of  spectators  been 
moved  to  higher  emotions? 

We  had  behaved  so  right  manfully,  that,  at  the 
ringside,  we  were  matched  again  for  another  meet 
ing.  In  that,  after  seventeen  rounds,  I  was  declared 
the  winner  on  a  "foul"  of  Gibbons. 

Again  we  were  matched,  this  time  to  fight  accord 
ing  to  London  prize  ring  rules — they  permitting 
more  latitude  for  our  brutish  instincts.  It  resulted 
in  a  "draw,"  but  not  until  we  had  entertained  the 
very  flower  of  the  sporting  world  for  forty-three 
rounds. 

Not  yet  satisfied  as  to  which  one  of  us  was  the 
greater  brute,  another  meeting  was  arranged,  and  1 
had  the  proud  distinction  of  being  the  victor  in  thi? 
fight  of  eleven  rounds. 

Poor  Tommy  Gibbons  took  his  defeat  very  much 
to  heart.  His  fistic  prestige  was  gone,  and  he  went 
speedily  to  "the  bad."  He  ended  his  busy  life  at 
the  hands  of  the  hangman,  paying  therewith  the 
penalty  for  one  of  the  most  horrible  murders  ever 
committed. 

Too  bad  that  such  a  promising  light  in  the  sport 
ing  world  should  meet  with  such  ignoble  end ! 


My  Mamie  Rose. 

My  backer,  the  paper  manufacturer,  who  did  so 
much,  by  effort  and  expenditure,  for  the  cause  of 
sport,  is  still  on  my  list  of  acquaintances.  He  is 
eminently  respectable,  the  father  of  an  adoring 
family,  the  model  for  striving  young  men,  a  pillar 
of  his  church,  a  power  in  commercial  life,  and,  with 
al,  an  enthusiastic  follower  of  the  Manly  Art  of 
Self-Defense,  provided  the  specimen  of  it  is  not  too 
tame. 

Apropos  of  the  manly  art  of  self-defense  I  want 
to  record  my  individual  opinion  that  it  is  a  lost 
art,  if  it  really  has  ever  been  an  art.  In  the  knightly 
art  of  fencing,  skill,  artful  skill,  is  necessary  and  ac 
quired.  Not  so  in  boxing ;  at  least  not  in  that  branch 
of  boxing  which  is  only  practised  for  money.  Men 
who  step  into  the  ring  for  a  "finish  fight"  are  not 
prompted  by  the  desire  of  giving  a  clever  exhibition 
of  boxing.  Their  only  desire — if  the  fight  "is  on  the 
level" — is  to  "put  out"  their  man  somehow,  as  quick 
ly  as  possible,  and  to  collect  their  end  of  the  purse 
as  promptly  as  possible.  I  have  seen  my  quota 
of  fights  in  my  life  time,  but  never  one  in  which 
claims  of  "fouls"  were  not  made. 

Is  it  not  logical  to  suppose  that  leading  exponents 
of  their  art  should  be  able  to  give  a  demonstration 
of  it  without  resorting  to  foul  means? 

Although  I  have  given  "physical  culture  lessons" 
64 


Living  by  My  Muscle. 

of  a  certain  kind  I  have  but  little  knowledge  of  how 
boxing  lessons  are  conducted  in  academies  and 
reputable  gymnasiums.  The  popularity  of  this 
branch  of  athletics  indicates  that  the  lessons  are 
conducive  to  corporal  perfection,  and  teach  men 
how  to  use  their  strength  to  best  advantage  when 
driven  to  the  point  of  defense. 

This  principle  is  not  observed  by  "scrappers." 
They  pay  less,  if  any  attention  to  boxing  than  to 
learning  tricks  of  their  trade.  It  is  all  very  well 
for  sporting  writers  to  speak  about  Fitzsimmons' 
and  Sullivan's  art,  but  I  am  quite  sure  that  one  or 
more  efficient  tricks  is  the  real  mainspring  of  many 
pugilistic  reputations. 

The  rules  of  the  prize  ring  are  fair  and  formed  to 
protect  men  from  foul  methods.  For  that  very  rea 
son,  all  the  tricks  learned — and  they  are  many  and 
efficient — are,  if  not  absolutely  fouls,  so  near  the 
dividing  line  that  the  margin  of  distinction  is  al 
most  nil. 

Through  the  press  of  the  country  we  are  in 
formed  that  prizefighters  now-a-days  make  consid 
erable  fortunes.  Then  they  did  not.  and  having  a 
surprisingly  healthy  appetite  in  a  healthy  body,  the 
fighting  profession  sadly  delayed  the  perfect  de 
velopment  of  my  embonpoint. 


LIVING  BY  MY  WITS 


CHAPTER  V. 

LIVING  BY  MY  WITS. 

TRUE,  my  fights  with  Tommy  Gibbons  and  others 
had  brought  me  some  money,  but  the  social  obliga 
tions  were  so  many  and  the  celebrations  so  frequent 
that,  after  a  short  time  of  plenty,  I  always  found 
myself  "dead  broke"  and  compelled  to  resort  to  my 
'"wits"  for  making  a  living. 

All  Chatham  street — now  Park  Row — and  the 
Bowery  teemed  with  "sporting  houses,"  which 
offered  opportunities  to  men  of  my  class.  In  many 
of  these  places  boxing  was  the  real  or  pretended 
attraction. 

On  an  elevated  stage  from  three  to  six  pairs  of 
boxers  and  wrestlers  furnished  nightly  entertain 
ment  for  a  roomful  of  foolish  men,  and — more's  the 
pity! — women.  The  real  purpose  of  these  gather 
ings  must  remain  nameless  here,  but  this  fact  we 
must  note,  that  all  of  these  "sporting-houses,"  these 
hells  of  blackest  iniquity,  were  run  by  so-called 
statesmen,  patriots,  politicians,  many  of  them  law 
makers,  or  else  by  their  figureheads. 

69 


My  Mamie  Rose. 

The  figureheads  were  chosen  with  great  careful 
ness.  To  become  a  proxy  owner  of  a  "sporting- 
house"  one  had  to  have  a  reputation,  sufficient  to 
attract  that  particularly  silly  and  morbid  crowd  of 
habitues.  Some  of  the  reputations  were  made  in 
the  prize  ring,  viz:  Frank  White,  manager  of  the 
Champion's  Rest,  on  the  Bowery,  two  doors  north 
of  Houston  street;  Billy  Madden,  Mike  Geary  and 
other  "prominent"  prizefighters.  A  few  of  them, 
as  Billy  Madden  and  Frank  Stevenson,  later 
branched  out  as  backers  of  pugilists,  policy  shops 
and  gambling  houses. 

Reputations  made  in  prisons  were  also  accepted 
as  qualifications,  and  "Fatty"  Flynn,  Billy  McGlory, 
Tommy  Stevenson,  Jimmy  Nugent,  of  Manhattan 
Bank  robbery  fame,  and  other  ex-inmates  of  jails 
owed  their  wide  popularitv  and  money-making  ca 
pacity  to  their  terms  spent  behind  the  bars. 

An  isolated  position  of  especially  luminous  glam 
or  was  acceptably  filled  by  the  famous  Mr.  Steve 
Brodie,  the  bridge- jumper,  and  greatest  "fake"  and 
fraud  of  the  period. 

In  places  where  boxing  was  not  the  attraction,  the 
vilest  passions  of  human  nature  were  vainly  incited 
by  painted  sirens,  who,  by  experience  and  compul 
sion  of  their  employers,  had  become  perfect  in  their 
shrewd  wickedness.  In  front  of  these  "joints" — 

70 


Living  by  My  Wits. 

frequently  called  "bilking  houses" — glaring  posters, 
picturing  the  pleasures  within,  were  displayed  in 
most  garish  array. 

In  addition  to  these  places  described,  a  number 
of  dance-halls,  notably  Billy  McGlory's  Armory 
Hall,  and  "Fatty"  Flynn's  place  in  Bond  street,  com 
pleted  the  boast  of  the  day  that  New  York  City  was 
a  "wide-open  town,"  and  the  "only  place  in  the 
world  fit  to  live  in." 

It  was  not  very  difficult  for  one,  accustomed  to 
the  environment,  to  "make  a  living"  in  it  by  his 
"wits." 

Any  one,  not  minding  a  short  spell  of  strenu- 
ousness,  could  always  get  from  a  dollar  and  a  half 
to  two  dollars  for  "donning  the  mitts"  in  the  "sport 
ing-houses,"  where  boxing  was  th  i  special  feature. 
Others,  having  neither  the  training  or  inclinations 
to  take  part  in  these  "set-to's,"  officiated  as  waiters 
— "beer-slingers" — and  found  it  more  remunerative, 
if  more  tedious  work. 

It  seems  to  be  a  distinct  trait  of  people  who  visit 
these  "dives"  and  "joints"  to  leave  their  small  allow 
ance  of  intelligence  at  the  door.  Men,  who,  in  their 
daily  occupation,  are  fairly  alert  and  awake  to  their 
interests,  permit  themselves  to  be  cheated  by  the 
most  transparent  devices  of  the  "beer-slingers." 

To  give  these  fellows  a  bill  in  payment  of  drinks 
71 


My  Mamie  Rose. 

is  simply  inviting  them  to  experiment  on  you. 
Over  charging,  "palming" — retaining  a  coin  in  the 
palm  of  the  hand  between  ball  of  thumb  and  fleshy 
part — "flim-flamming" — doubling  a  bill  in  a  number 
of  them,  and  counting  each  end  of  it  as  one  separate 
bill — are  the  most  common  means  of  cheating  em 
ployed.  Whenever  any  of  these  tricks  failed,  the 
money  was  either  withheld  or  taken  away  by  force, 
and  the  victim — the  "sucker" — bodily  thrown  into 
the  streets  as  a  "disorderly  person." 

Such  were  the  glories  of  the  "open  town." 

Although  a  recognized  factor  in  the  world  pugilis 
tic,  I  was  not  above  seeking  occasional  employment 
in  these  resorts,  and  it  helped  me  to  create  for 
myself  another  reputation.  I  did  not  work  in  these 
places  for  the  purpose  of  study  or  observation,  yet, 
every  night  my  contempt  for  the  patrons  of  these 
"joints"  increased. 

Men,  whose  names  I  had  heard  and  mentioned 
with  awe;  men,  whose  positions  and  station  should 
have  been  guarantees  of  every  sterling  quality, 
came  there,  not  once,  but  night  after  night,  to  enjoy 
that  seemingly  harmless  pastime  known  as  "slum 
ming" — to  have  a  "good  time." 

A  "good  time"  in  the  midst  of  moral  and  physical 
filth ;  a  "good  time"  in  the  company  of  jailbirds,  fall 
en  men  and  women ;  a  "good  time"  of  grossest  sel- 

72 


Living  by  My  Wits. 

fishness,  for,  over  and  over  again,  I  have  seen  men 
there  for  whose  education  I  would  have  gladly  given 
years  of  my  life,  and  who,  by  one  word  of  sympathy 
or  encouragement,  could  have  rekindled  the  dying 
flame  of  hope,  of  self-respect,  in  some  fellow-being, 
but  that  word  was  never  spoken,  because  it  would 
have  brought  discord  into  the  "good  time,"  and 
would  have  jangled  the  croaking  melody  chanted 
by  that  chorus  of  human  scum  in  praise  of  their 
host — the  "sightseer" — of  the  evening! 

A  glorious  sport  this  "sightseeing,"  these  "good 
times,"  when  men  of  "respectability"  and  position 
feast  with  gloating  eyes  on  all  that  is  vile  and  look 
on  the  unfortunates  of  a  great  city  as  if  they  were 
some  strange  beasts,  some  freaks  in  human  shape. 
That  almost  every  creature  in  these  "dives"  and 
"joints"  has  left  behind  a  niche  in  the  world's  use 
fulness,  or  a  home,  to  which  his  or  her  daily  thoughts 
stray  back,  is  not  considered  by  the  "sightseer." 
One  does  not  like  unpleasant  reflections  when  at  a 
circus. 

Vile,  very  vile,  are  the  men  and  women  who  con 
stitute  the  population  of  divedom,  but  how  about 
the  representatives  of  respectability,  who  come 
among  them  to  spend  their  "good  time"  with  them? 

Were  I  at  liberty  to  give  the  names  of  men  whom 
I  have  seen  hobnobbing  with  the  most  fearful  riff- 

73 


My  Mamie  Rose. 

raff,  you  would  shrug  your  shoulders  and  say:   "I 
cannot  believe  it  of  them."    Yet,  I  do  not  lie. 

There  is  no  need  for  lying,  and  there  is  much 
corroboration,  not  the  least  being  the  conscience  of 
those  men. 

We  want  you — you  men  and  women  of  respecta 
bility — to  come  to  these  "dives,"  but  we  want  you 
to  come  for  another  purpose.  Even  at  this  very 
moment  there  is  a  scope  for  your  efforts  in  spite 
of  all  change  of  administration  and  Christian  endeav 
or  has  done  for  that  part  of  the  city.  The  stamp 
ing  out  of  vice  is  carried  on  vigorously,  but  vice  is 
a  proverbially  obstinate  disease. 

Only  a  few  nights  ago  I  saw  a  scene  in  a  widely 
known  pest  hole,  reeking  with  stench  beyond  its 
very  doors,  which  I  can  only  hint  at  in  describ 
ing  it. 

At  one  of  the  tables  sat  a  youth,  a  mere  boy,  who 
had  been  coaxed  into  the  dirty  hole  by  the  persua 
sion  of  the  wily  "barker"  at  the  side  door.  The  boy 
seemed  from  the  country,  his  ruddy  complexion  and 
"store  clothes"  indicated  it.  The  drink,  which  he 
had  been  forced  to  buy,  was  standing  untasted  be 
fore  him.  Without  being  afraid,  he  kept  wide 
awake  and  resented  all  overtures  made  to  him.  But 
he  looked  too  much  like  an  easy  victim  to  escape 
the  usual  procedure. 

74 


Living  by  My  Wits. 

Before  he  was  aware  of  it,  a  woman  had  dropped 
into  the  chair  on  the  other  side  of  the  table.  At 
least  more  than  fifty  years  of  age,  the  toothless 
wretch  assumed  the  coquetry  of  a  young  girl. 

The  gray  hair,  devoid  of  comb  or  ribbon,  hung 
in  straggling  strands  to  her  shoulders.  The  front 
of  her  dress  was  unbuttoned.  Still,  this  witch  of 
lowest  depravity,  lulled  her  Lorelei  song,  hoping 
to  transfix  the  gaze  of  the  boy — young  enough  per 
haps  to  be  her  grandson — by  the  leer  of  her  bleary 
eyes. 

I  do  not  dare,  and  if  I  dared,  could  not  tell  you 
the  horridness  of  this  scene,  yet  it  was  only  a  detail 
in  the  grander  spectacle,  the  "good  time,"  seen  and 
enjoyed  nightly  by  thousands  of  the  "better"  class. 

Forerunners  of  the  eventually  coming  overthrow 
of  "open"  vice  made  themselves  felt  during  some  of 
the  more  important  elections  and  for  a  few  weeks 
preceding  election  day  the  ukase  was  sent  out  by 
the  mysterious  hidden  powers:  "Lie  low  for  a 
while." 

These  periods  of  restriction,  while  not  welcome, 
did  not  involve  great  hardships  for  us,  the  "sports" 
of  the  Bowery.  If  the  blare  of  the  wheezy  cornet 
and  the  thumping  of  the  piano  had  to  be  silenced 
for  the  time  being,  there  were  other  channels  in 


My  Mamie  Rose. 

which  the  services  of  the  men,  who  did  not  care, 
could  be  utilized. 

One  of  the  most  flourishing  industries  carried  on 
was  the  confidence  game  in  its  many  guises. 

"Ah,  all  the  'easy  marks'  go  up  to  the  Tenderloin 
now,"  is  the  cry  of  the  few  remaining  Bowery  graft 
ers.  Then  it  was  different. 

The  Bowery  was  famed  from  Atlantic  to  Pacific 
for  what  it  offered.  Every  day  a  new  consignment 
of  lambs  unloaded  itself  on  this  highway  of  the 
foolish  and  miserable,  to  be  devoured  by  the  ex 
pectant  wolves.  The  recognized  headquarters  of  the 
wolves  was  at  the  corner  of  Pell  street. 

A  few  among  them  were  men  of  some  education 
and  refinement,  but  the  most  of  them  were  beetle- 
browed  ruffians,  who  seemed  ill  at  ease  in  their 
fine  raiment,  the  emblem  of  their  calling. 

To  get  the  stranger's  money  many  means  were 
used. 

Sailors,  immigrants,  farmers  and  out-of-town 
merchants  were  approached  in  most  suitable  man 
ner,  generally  by  a  claim  of  former  acquaintance 
ship.  To  celebrate  the  renewal  of  their  old  friend 
ship  it  was  necessary  to  adjoin  to  the  nearby  gin- 
mill.  Here,  the  stranger,  the  "refound  old  friend/' 
would  not  be  permitted  to  spend  one  cent  of  his 
money — "dear,  no,  you're  my  guest." 

76 


Living  by  My  Wits. 

Next  move:  The  two  reunited  friends — the  wolf 
and  the  lamb — are  joined  by  a  third — "an  old  friend 
o'  mine,"  says  the  wolf. 

The  newcomer  sings  one  of  the  many  variations 
of  the  old,  old  theme.  He  has  just  won  a  lot  of 
money  at  a  game  where  no  one  can  lose;  or  has  a 
telegram  promising  beyond  a  doubt  that  a  certain 
horse  was  to  win  that  day ;  or  has  a  hundred  dollar 
bill,  which  he  wants  to  change ;  or  is  broke,  and 
offers  his  entire  outlay  of  jewelry,  watch,  studs  and 
rings,  each  one  flashing  with  fire-spitting  jewels, 
for  a  mere  bagatelle  of  fifty  dollars ;  or  offers  to  bet 
on  some  mechanical  trick  toy  in  his  possession,  trick 
pocketbook  or  snuff  box,  and  loses  every  bet  to  the 
wolf — but  not  to  the  lamb;  or  offers  to  take  both, 
wolf  and  lamb,  to  a  "regular  hot  joint,"  hinting  at 
the  beautiful  sights  to  be  beheld  there,  which,  in 
reality,  is  a  "never-lose"  gambling  device. 

Should  the  lamb  prove  impervious  to  all  these 
temptations,  the  pleasing  concoction  called  "knock 
out  drops"  is  introduced  as  most  effective  tonic. 

Sometimes  there  is  a  slip  in  the  proceedings,  and 
the  lamb  "tumbles  to  the  game"  before  he  is  shorn. 
This  is  entirely  against  the  rules  of  the  industry,  and 
cannot  be  permitted  without  being  rebuked.  There 
fore,  the  confidence  industry  was  always  willing  to 


77 


My  Mamie  Rose. 

draw  its  apprentices  from  the  class  in  which  muscu 
larity  and  brutality  were  the  only  qualifications. 

Other  industries,  now  much  retrograded,  were 
the  "sawdust,"  "green  goods"  and  "gold  brick" 
games.  All  these  games  were  vastly  entertaining 
to  all,  and  vastly  profitable  to  some.  Besides,  in 
their  lower  stages,  and  technically  inside  of  the  law. 
they  gave  employment  to  many  young  men,  who, 
like  me,  were  unwilling  to  use  their  strength  in 
more  honorable  occupation,  preferring  to  be  the 
slaves  of  crooked  masters  and  schemes. 

Those  were  not  all  the  ways  in  which  a  well- 
known  tough  could  earn  an  honest  dollar.  To  our 
"hang  out,"  sheltering  always  a  large  number  of« 
choice  spirits,  frequently  came  messengers  calling 
for  a  quota  for  some  expedient  mission.  We  were 
the  "landsknechts"  of  the  day,  willing  to  serve  any 
master,  without  inquiring  into  the  ethics  of  the  cause, 
for  pay. 

Electoral  campaigns  in  this  and  other  cities  fur 
nished  much  employment.  Capt  B ,  of  Hoboken, 

a  notorious  "guerrilla"  chief,  was  a  frequent  em 
ployer.  During  a  heated  contest  in  a  small  town 
near  Baltimore,  he  shipped  fifty  of  us  to  the  scene 
of  strife  to  "help  elect"  his  patron.  Five  "Bowery 
gents,"  in  rough  and  ready  trim,  were  stationed 
near  each  doubtful  polling  place,  and,  somehow,  in- 

78 


Living  by  My  Wits, 

duced  voters,  unfriendly  to  their  master  of  the  mo 
ment,  to  keep  away  from  the  ballot  boxes. 

Local  primaries  and  conventions,  regardless  of 
politics,  could  never  afford  to  do  without  us.  To 
day  we  would  fight  the  men,  who,  to-morrow,  would 
pay  us  to  turn  the  tables  on  our  masters  of  yester 
day. 

Still,  we  were  loyal  to  our  temporary  bosses.  We 
offered  our  strength  and  brutality  in  open  market. 
We  asked  a  price,  and,  if  it  was  paid,  we  did  our 
"work"  with  a  faithfulness  worthier  of  a  better 
cause.  That  this  was  so  is  proven  by  the  fact  that 
not  only  John  Y.  McKane,  the  "Czar  of  Coney 
Island,"  recruited  his  police  force  from  among  us, 
but  even  reputable  concerns,  like  the  Iron  Steam 
boat  Company,  and  others,  engaged  men  of  our  class 
to  preserve  order  and  peace  at  designated  posts. 

A  number  of  railroad  companies  and  detective 
bureaus,  in  times  of  strikes,  invited  us  to  aid  them 
in  protecting  property  and  temporary  employees, 
but,  for  some  reason  or  other,  these  offers  were 
never  greedily  accepted. 

Among  the  rest  of  these  unlisted  occupations 
must  be  mentioned  playing  pool  and  cards.  I  do  not 
mean  the  out-and-out  experts  of  these  games 
hung  around  to  win  money  from  unwary  strangers. 
Quite  a  number  of  the  more  "straight"  saloons  on 

19 


My  Mamie  Rose. 

the  Bowery  did  not  object  to  having  about  the  place 
a  crowd  of  fellows  who  were  fair  players  of  pool  or 
the  games  of  cards  in  vogue.  If,  by  any  chance 
they  lost  a  game,  the  proprietor  would  stand  the 
loss,  and,  if  they  proved  exceedingly  lucky,  he  would 
give  them  a  percentage  of  the  receipts  of  the  game. 
It  is  rather  difficult  to  enumerate  all  the  different 
ways  in  which  a  man,  who  had  to  live  by  his  "wits," 
could  make  a  living  on  the  Bowery.  They  were 
many  and  variegated  in  their  nature.  It  was  a  say 
ing  of  the  day  that  all  a  man  had  to  do  then  was 
to  leave  his  "hang-out"  for  an  hour  to  return  with 
enough  money  to  pay  his  expenses  for  the  day. 


AT  THE  SIGN  OF  CHICORY  HALL. 


CHAPTER  VI. 

AT   THE    SIGN    OF   CHICORY    HALL. 

I  HAVE  several  times  mentioned  "hang-out." 
Most  of  these  "hang-outs"  were  ginmills  (saloons) 
of  the  better  class,  but  the  real  Bowery  Bohemian 
chose  odd  spots  for  his  haunts.  The  most  unique 
resort  in  this  Bohemia  of  the  nether  world  was  at 
Chicory  Hall,  where  my  particular  gang  had  estab 
lished  itself. 

It  was  a  basement  at  the  corner  of  Fourth  street 
and  Bowery.  Originally  a  bakeshop,  it  had  been 
unoccupied  for  some  time,  until  a  coffee  merchant 
rented  it  to  prepare  his  chicory  there.  One  man 
constituted  the  entire  working  force  of  the  plant, 
and  it  so  happened  that  Tom  Noseley,  the  chicory 
baker,  was  imbued  with  sporting  proclivities. 

Do  not  let  us  forget  that,  at  the  time,  the  prize 
fighter  was  a  man  of  consequence  to  the  youths  of 
the  East  Side.  To  know  a  pugilist,  to  have  spoken 
to  him,  to  have  shaken  his  hand,  was  an  event  never 
to  be  forgotten. 

83 


My  Mamie  Rose. 

Tom  Noseley  was  a  very  young  man.  In  the 
immediate  neighborhood  of  his  basement  were  many 
"sporting-houses."  Tom  Noseley  was  earning 
eighteen  dollars  a  week.  What  is  more  natural  than 
that  one  of  sporting  proclivities  should  become  an 
enthusiastic  patron  of  "sporting-houses"? 

Tom  Noseley  wanted  to  number  some  well-known 
pugilists  among  his  acquaintances.  Several  well- 
known  pugilists,  I  among  the  number,  did  not  resent 
his  many  invitations  to  drink  with  him,  and,  ere 
long,  the  dream  of  Noseley  seemed  fully  realized, 
for  we  consented,  after  much  coaxing,  to  call  at  his 
basement  for  the  pleasant  task  of  "rushing  the 
growler." 

Our  first  call  at  the  cellar  convinced  us  of  its 
many  attractions.  It  seemed  just  the  place  for  an 
ideal  "hang-out."  Then,  also,  there  was  Tom 
Noseley's  weekly  stipend  of  eighteen  dollars  a  week, 
which  he  was  willing  to  spend  to  the  last  cent  for 
the  "furthering  of  sport." 

Tom  Noseley  was  a  hunter  of  Bowery  lions.  I 
have  been  told  that  in  higher  social  strata  different 
lions  are  hunted  by  different  hunters.  Still,  the 
species  do  not  differ  very  much  from  each  other. 

Men  who  had  "done"  a  long  term  in  prison ;  men 
who  had  a  reputation  for  crookedness;  men  who 
were  known  to  make  their  living  without  having  to 

84 


At  the  Sign  of  Chicory  Hall. 

descend  to  the  ignoble  manner  of  working  for  it, 
all  these  had  been  fads  of  Noseley.  Then,  the 
sporting  spirit  of  the  Bowery  flared  up  with  great 
spluttering,  and  Noseley,  for  the  nonce,  took  the 
poor,  shiftless  boxers  to  his  heart  of  hearts. 

We  named  the  cellar  "Chicory  Hall,"  and  quickly 
succeeded  in  making  it  known. 

The  cellar  consisted  of  two  large  rooms.  De 
scending  from  Fourth  street,  about  a  dozen  steps 
led  to  the  bakeshop.  Four  small  windows,  grimed 
with  impenetrable  dirt,  suggested  the  presence  of 
light.  The  sunlight  or  cloudy  sky  found  no  token 
there.  At  night  one  dim  flame  of  gas  gave  a  sort  of 
humorous  weirdness  to  the  filthy  hole. 

Adjoining  the  bakeshop  was  a  dark  apartment 
of  the  same  size  as  the  first  room,  used  as  storing 
place  for  the  bags  of  bran,  which  were  used  in  the 
manufactory  of  chicory.  Shortly  after  establishing 
our  headquarters  at  Chicory  Hall,  we  chose  the 
storage  room  as  our  sleeping  chamber,  making  un 
wieldy  couches  from  the  heavy,  unclean  bags. 

Certainly  we  had  conveniences,  a  "front  room" 
and  a  "bedroom,"  what  more  could  we  desire?  And 
we  appreciated  it.  Did  not  I,  myself,  spend  ten  en 
tire  days  and  nights  in  Chicory  Hall  without  ever 
leaving  it? 

But  while  Tom  Noseley's  eighteen  dollars  a  week, 
85 


My  Mamie  Rose. 

earned  by  his  intermittent  labors  in  baking  chicory, 
were  not  to  be  despised  as  the  substantial  nucleus 
of  our  treasury,  they  were  not  enough  to  provide  a 
little  food  and  much  drink  for  about  six  able-bodied 
prizefighters  out  of  work.  The  regular  staff  in 
cluded  Jerry  Slattery,  the  Limerick  Terror ;  Mike 
Ryan,  the  Montana  Giant;  Tom  Green  and  his 
brother,  Patsy  Green ;  Charlie  Carroll  and  myself. 

On  Saturday,  Tom  Noseley's  pay  day,  two  or 
three  of  the  staff  appointed  themselves  a  committee 
to  accompany  our  host  to  the  office  and  to  prevent 
him  from  falling  into  other  hands.  His  return  was 
celebrated  by  feasting  on  many  pounds  of  raw 
chopped  meat  and  drinking  many  gallons  of  beer. 
Sunday  morning  found  the  exchequer  very  much 
depleted,  containing,  perhaps,  just  enough  to  re- 
flicker  our  drooping  and  aching  spirits  by  purchas 
ing  several  pints  of  the  vilest  fusel  oil,  parading 
under  the  name  of  whiskey,  ever  manufactured. 

Sabbath  day,  the  day  of  rest,  as  appointed  by  the 
Master,  was  spent  by  us  in  quiet  peace.  That  the 
peace  was  a  consequence  of  the  turbulent  hilarity  of 
the  night  before,  and  not  a  desire  to  live  according 
to  divine  dictates  is  a  mere  detail. 

At  the  beginning  of  our  sojourn  at  Chicory  Hall 
our  feast  of  Saturday  was  generally  followed  by  a 
famine  until  the  next  week's  end.  This  was  some- 

86 


At  the  Sign  of  Chicory  Hall. 

what  palliated  by  a  happy  inspiration  of  "Lamby," 
a  character  of  the  locality. 

"Lamby" — no  one  knew  him  by  any  other  name — 
had  some  mysterious  hiding  and  sleeping  place,  but 
was  infatuated  with  our  Subterranean  Bohe 
mia  and  spent  all  his  spare  time — which  practically 
was  all  his  time,  excepting  the  hours  dedicated  to 
sleep — with  the  Knights  of  Chicory  Hall.  He  was 
a  boy  of  about  seventeen  years  of  age,  over  six  foot 
tall,  of  piping  voice  and  full  of  most  unexpected 
opinions  and  ideas. 

There  was  good  stuff  in  "Lamby,"  as  in  many  of 
the  East  Side  boys,  who  are,  by  environment  and 
circumstances,  led  into  evil,  or,  at  least,  useless  lives. 
"Lamby's"  heart  was  bigger  than  all  his  carcass. 
To  be  his  friend,  meant  that  "Lamby"  thought  it 
his  duty  to  give  three-fourths  of  all  his  temporary 
possessions  to  the  cementing  of  this  friendship. 

I  made  "Lamby's"  acquaintance  under  inconven 
ient  conditions.  He  was  not  yet  entitled  to  vote. 
This  did  not  prevent  him  from  formulating  the 
strongest  opinions  on  political  personages  and  prin 
ciples.  During  the  election  which  made  me  ac 
quainted  with  him,  "Lamby"  for  some  unknown 
reason,  was  doing  the  most  enthusiastic  individual 
"stumping"  for  the  candidate  of  one  of  the  labor 
parties.  It  was  conceded  by  the  supporters  of  the 

87 


My  Mamie  Rose. 

labor  ticket  that  the  candidate  in  question  stood  ab 
solutely  no  chance  of  being  elected  and  that  their 
entire  list  of  nominees  was  only  in  the  field  as  a 
means  of  making  propaganda,  of  paving  the  way 
for  future  possibilities.  All  this  did  not  deter 
"Lamby"  from  sounding  the  labor-man's  praises 
on  all  and  every  occasion. 

In  one  of  his  many  eulogies  "Lamby"  was  op 
posed  by  a  ward-heeler  of  the  local  organization, 
who  laughing  offered  to  bet  any  amount  that  the 
much  praised  candidate  would  not  poll  fifty  votes. 
This  roused  the  ire  of  the  champion  of  labor. 

"Say,"  cried  "Lamby"  at  his  adversary,  "you 
know  I  ain't  got  no  money  to  bet  and  that's  why 
you're  so  anxious  to  bet  me.  If  you're  on  the  level 
in  this,  I'll  tell  you  what  I'll  do.  You  put  up  your 
money  and  if  Kaltwasser  don't  get  elected  I  won't 
speak  to  no  human  being  for  a  month." 

The  politician  accepted  this  odd  bet  and,  a  few 
weeks  later,  "Lamby,"  by  his  own  decree,  found 
himself  sentenced  to  one  month's  silence. 

And  "Lamby"  loved  to  talk ! 

It  was  a  fearful  dilemma,  but  leave  it  to  a  Bowery 
boy  to  wriggle  out  of  a  scrape. 

In  one  of  his  rambles,  "Lamby"  had  met  Rags, 
and,  impressed  by  some  similarity  in  their  appear- 


88 


At  the  Sign  of  Chicory  HalL 

ance  and  disposition,  had  appointed  him  forthwith 
his  chum  and  inseparable  companion. 

Rags  was  a  cur  of  nondescript  origin  and  breed. 
His  long,  wobbly  and  ungainly  legs  barely  balanced 
a  long  and  shaggy  body,  draped  with  a  frowsy, 
kaleidoscopic  mass  of  wiry  hair.  The  color  of  Rags' 
eyes  could  not  be  determined,  bangs  of  matted  locks 
wholly  screening  them  from  view. 

For  some  obscure  reason,  "Lamby"  conceived  the 
idea  that  the  use  of  the  lower  extremities  would 
prove  injurious  to  Rags,  and  the  mongrel — surely 
weighing  at  least  fifty  pounds — spent  most  of  his 
time  in  the  loving  arms  of  his  adoring  friend. 

The  opportunity  to  return  some  of  his  friend's 
devotion,  by  making  himself  useful  to  him,  came 
to  Rags  during  the  period  in  which  "Lamby's" 
tongue  was  restrained  from  its  favorite  function 
for  a  month  of  silence.  "Lamby's"  pledge  not  to 
speak  to  a  human  being  for  a  month  was  never 
broken,  but  he  found  a  way  of  expressing  him 
self  to  Rags  in  such  loud  and  distinct  tones  that 
no  one  had  any  difficulty  in  following  the  train 
of  conversation. 

There  was  so  much  ingenuity  in  the  plan  that  tfie 
ward  politician  declared  the  bet  off  and  presented 
"Lamby"  with  a  part  of  the  stake  money. 

On  a  Monday,  when  the  feast  of  Saturday  was  but 
89 


My  Mamie  Rose. 

a  sweet  memory  and  the  famine  of  the  week  had  set 
in  with  convincing  force,  Tom  Noseley  and  his  staff 
of  friends — including  "Lamby"  and  Rags,  who 
hugged  the  shadowy  recess  of  a  corner — sat  discon 
solately  in  the  dingy  dimness  of  Chicory  Hall. 

"Ain't  none  of  you  fellows  got  any  money  at  all  ?" 
queried  Jerry  Slattery  against  hope. 

The  question  was  too  absurd  to  deserve  an  answer. 

"Well,  what  are  we  going  to  do?"  pursued  the 
Limerick  Terror;  "I'm  hungry  as  blazes  and  can't 
stand  this  any  longer.  Nothing  to  eat  and  nothing 
to  drink ;  this  is  worse  than  being  on  the  bum 
in  the  country  among  the  hayseeds.  If  I  don't 
get  something  here  pretty  soon,  I'll  go  out  into  the 
Bowery  and  see  if  I  can't  pick  up  something." 

The  harangue  passed  our  ears  without  comment. 
More  deep  and  dark  silence.  Then  everybody  turned 
to  where  "Lamby's"  preambling  cough  heralded  a 
monologistic  dialogue. 

"Rags,"  began  the  silent  sage  of  Chicory  Hall, 
"what  would  you  and  me  do,  if  we  was  hungry 
and  wasn't  as  delicate  as  we  are?  Wouldn't  you 
and  me  go  up  to  Lafayette  alley  and  look  them 
chickens  over  that  don't  seem  to  belong  to  nobody? 
Couldn't  you  and  me  use  them  in  the  shape  of  one 
o'  them  nice  chicken  stews  with  plenty  of  potatoes 
and  onions  in  it?  Ain't  it  too  bad  that  you  and  me 

90 


At  the  Sign  of  Chicory  Hall. 

is  too  delicate  to  be  chasing  round  after  them 
chickens  and  that  we  aren't  allowed  to  speak  so's 
we  could  tell  other  people  how  to  get  a  meal  that'll 
tickle  them  to  death  ?" 

Bully  "Lamby." 

In  less  than  five  minutes  a  small,  but  determined 
gang  of  marauders  made  their  stealthy  way  through 
Lafayette  alley.  Every  one  of  the  husky  pilferers 
endeavored  to  shrink  his  big  body  into  the  smallest 
compass.  The  alley  ended  in  a  hamlet  of  ram 
shackle  stables  in  the  rear  of  a  famous  bathing  es 
tablishment.  The  place  was  deserted  in  day  time 
as  all  men  and  animal  occupants  were  in  the  streets 
pursuing  the  energetic  calling  of  peddling.  As  said, 
the  place  was  deserted,  save  for  those  chickens. 
Dating  from  our  first  call,  the  chickens,  young  and 
old,  began  to  disappear. 

For  over  a  week  we  feasted  on  chicken.  We  had 
them  in  all  known  styles  of  cooking.  Our  bill  of 
fare  included  fried,  baked,  stewed,  broiled  and 
fricasseed  chicken.  But  a  day  came  when  naught 
was  left  of  the  flock  of  chicks  excepting  one  big, 
black  rooster. 

I  shall  never  forget  him,  because  it  was  my  fate 
to  be  his  captor. 

He  surely  was  a  general  of  no  mean  order.  We 
Had  often  hunted  him,  but  he  had  always  succeeded 

91 


My  Mamie  Rose. 

in  eluding  us  by  some  cleverly  executed  movement. 

This  survivor  of  his  race  irritated  my  determina 
tion  and,  supported  and  flanked  by  my  cohorts,  I  set 
out  to  exterminate  the  last  of  the  clan.  Sounding 
his  defy  in  many  cackles  and  muffled  crows  the  black 
hero  raced  up  and  down  the  yard,  dodging,  when 
ever  possible,  under  some  of  the  unused  wagons 
and  trucks  standing  about.  But  escape  was  impos 
sible. 

Driven  into  a  corner  he  faced  me  and  my  bag 
with  splendid  heroism.  He  met  the  lowering  death 
trap  by  an  angry  leap,  and,  when  I  and  bag  fell 
on  top  of  him,  we  were  greeted  by  a  shower  of 
furious  picking  and  clawing. 

Oh,  brave  descendant  of  a  brave  ancestry,  nobly 
did  you  meet  the  inevitable  fate !  You  were  never 
born  to  be  eaten ;  you  were  the  tough  son  of  a 
tough  father !  First,  you  fought  right  splendidly 
against  being  captured,  then,  you  resisted  most  stub 
bornly  against  being  devoured !  Boiled,  stewed, 
fried,  hashed,  you  remained  tough,  and,  even  in 
death,  you  defied  us !  You  escaped  the  destiny  of 
your  weaker  brethren,  for  you  were  never  eaten  ! 

Chicken  coops  are  not  many  on  the  Bowery. 
Having  found  and  demolished  the  feathered  oasis, 
we  were  again  reduced  to  dire  straits. 

Again  "Lamby"  proved  our  rescuer. 
92 


At  the  Sign  of  Chicory  Hall. 

He  and  Rags,  with  the  story  of  the  extraordinary 
bet,  were  discovered  by  a  reporter  and  given  due 
fame  in  the  press.  "Lamby"  and  Rags  became  ce 
lebrities  and  deigned  to  receive  their  many  callers 
in  the  attractive  reception  room  of  Chicory  Hall. 
A  trifle  of  the  glamor  reflected  on  us,  the  minor 
characters  in  the  comedy,  and  visitors  became  quite 
frequent  to  behold  the  "truly  charming,  typical  Bo 
hemia  of  the  nether  world." 

But  visitors  will  not  call  again  unless  you  make 
their  first  visit  entertaining.  How  could  we  enter 
tain  them  ?  Not  one  of  us  was  as  yet  of  a  literary 
turn  of  mind,  and  were  not  prepared  to 
offer  readings  or  selections  from  Shakespeare, 
Lowell  or  Browning.  Some  of  us  were  quite 
renowned  as  comedians,  but  it  is  very  doubt 
ful  if  our  humor  would  have  appealed  to 
the  class  of  people  honoring  us  with  their 
visits.  There  was  nothing  left  to  do  but  to  offer 
entertainment  in  the  only  line  in  which  we  all  were 
proficient.  The  reception  room  of  Chicory  Hall  be 
came  an  impromptu  arena  and  fights  were  fought 
down  there  which,  for  ferociousness  and  bloody 
.stubbornness  have  never  been  beaten. 

It  would  be  quite  logical  to  suppose  here  that  our 
visitors  were  of  the  rowdy  element,  and  all  of  the 
male  sex.  I  wish  I  could  tell  you  differently,  but 

93 


My  Mamie  Rose. 

the  truth  of  the  matter  is  that  the  "very  best  fam 
ilies"  were  represented  at  our  nocturnal  seances  by 
younger  members  of  both  sexes. 

In  the  course  of  time  Chicory  Hall  became  quite 
a  "sight  place,"  and  it  was  nothing  unusual  to  see  a 
string  of  carriages  and  coaches  in  front  of  the  hum 
ble  entrance  to  the  subterranean  Bohemia.  Would 
I  were  a  Balzac  to  describe  to  you  an  evening  at 
Chicory  Hall. 

At  the  foot  of  the  stairs  was  a  circle  marked  on 
the  floor  with  chalk.  No  one  save  the  regular  mem 
bers  of  the  staff  were  permitted  to  enter  the  sacred 
precincts  without  depositing  a  "voluntary"  contribu 
tion  in  the  circle.  Corresponding  to  the  amount 
gathered  by  the  circle  was  the  degree  of  entertain 
ment. 

On  a  row  of  boxes,  crippled  chairs,  upturned  pails 
and  other  makeshift  seats,  the  guests  were  served 
with  drinks  at  their  own  expense  pending  the  pre 
liminaries.  Above  their  heads,  traced  with  white 
paint  on  grimy  walls,  was  this  legend  in  straggling 
letters : 

"WELCOME  TO  CHICORY  HALL!" 

With  our  increasing  prosperity  came  needed  im 
provements,  and  the  solitary  gas  light  was  reinforced 
by  a  murky  smelling  kerosene  lamp,  which  I  can 

9* 


At  the  Sign  of  Chicory  Hall. 

never  remember  having  seen  topped  by  an  uncracked 
chimney.  The  door,  on  account  of  the  lively  pro 
ceedings  within,  had  to  be  kept  shut,  and  you  can 
easily  imagine  the  atmosphere  in  the  cellar,  there 
being  no  ventilation. 

Still  our  guests  kept  coming  and  truly  enjoyed 
themselves  because  "it  was  all  so  charmingly  realistic 
and  odd." 

Being  the  most  steady  member  of  Chicory  and 
rarely  absent  from  the  hall,  it  was  quite  natural  that 
I  took  part  in  most  of  the  "goes"  in  the  cellar.  I 
felt  myself  in  my  element.  Neither  the  Marquis  of 
Queensberry  or  the  London  prize  ring  rules  were 
rigidly  enforced,  and  my  viciousness  had  full  scope, 
our  guests — men  and  women  of  the  "better"  class — 
liking  nothing  so  well  as  a  "knockout  finish." 

Mainly  through  my  savageness  the  last  vestige  of 
regulated  fighting  disappeared  from  our  "set-tos," 
and  our  performances  fell  to  the  level  of  "go-as-you- 
please"  scrimmages.  My  reputation  as  a  precious 
brute  increased  rapidly,  and  again  a  certain  set  of 
men  saw  a  probability  in  me. 

I  was  asked  if  I  would  fight  anything  and  any 
body  under  any  conditions.  An  easy  question  to 
answer  for  a  man,  who,  in  the  fullest  possession  of 
all  his  strength,  had  no  knowledge  of  any  other  con 
trolling  influence  than  his  brutal  instinct 

95 


My  Mamie  Rose. 

Not  knowing  or  caring  who  my  opponent  was  to 
be,  I  left  all  arrangements  to  the  enthusiasts,  and  in 
due  time  was  introduced  to  Mr.  Mickey  Davis,  who 
had  the  great  honor  of  being  the  champion  rough 
and  tumble  fighter  of  New  York. 

These  were  the  conditions  of  our  meeting:  We 
were  to  be  locked  in  a  room,  with  the  privilege  of 
using  any  means  of  defeating  each  other.  Of  course, 
weapons  were  excluded,  but  any  other  pleasantries 
like  biting,  clawing,  choking,  gouging,  were  not  only 
allowed,  but  really  essential.  He  who  first  begged 
to  have  the  door  unlocked  and  to  be  taken  from  the 
room  was  the  loser. 

I  held  the  championship  for  some  time.  In  fact, 
I  relinquished  it  voluntarily  not  long  afterward  on 
account  of  several  changes  which  occurred  in  my 
life. 

I  should  not  blame  you  in  the  least  were  you  to  feel 
disgust  and  contempt  for  me  for  writing  of  it  and 
for  seemingly  to  glory  in  it.  Your  disgust  is  jus 
tified,  your  contempt  is  not.  I  myself  am  disgusted 
with  my  past  and  its  several  stages  of  degradation, 
but  I  have  pledged  myself  to  tell  you  the  truth,  and 
I  am  doing  and  will  do  it. 

Perhaps  you  may  despise  me  for  it,  but  put  your 
self  in  my  place  and  you  will  be  less  severe.  There 
was  something  brewing  and  fermenting  within  me 

96 


At  the  Sign  of  Chicory  Hall. 

which  wanted  to  assert  itself.  I  wanted  to  be  some 
body;  to  be  successful.  It  is  a  frank  confession. 

Will  you  blame  a  blind  man  for  choosing  the 
wrong  path  at  the  crossroads?  Will  you  not,  in 
stead,  lead  him  in  the  right  direction  ? 

Was  I  not  blind  when  I  stood  on  life's  highway 
and  could  not  see  the  pointed  finger  which  read: 
"To  Decency,  Usefulness  and  Manhood"? 

And  there  was  no  one  to  lead  me. 

Yes,  criticise,  sneer,  if  you  will,  but  do  not  forget 
that  in  my  life  there  had  been  no  parental  love  or 
guidance  and  no  moral  influence. 

The  attaining  of  my  championship  revived  the  in 
terest  of  the  "sporting  set"  of  the  Bowery  in  me,  and 
several  flattering  offers  were  made  to  me  by  certain 
dive-keepers.  I  changed  from  place  to  place  and  left 
such  a  trail  of  noble  deeds  behind  me  that  ere  long 
I  found  myself  a  real,  genuine  celebrity  and  a  man 
with  a  name. 

I  never  had  any  difficulty  in  getting  work  at  my 
calling — that  of  a  "bouncer,"  called,  for  the  sake  of 
politeness,  "floor  manager,"  as  my  connection  with 
any  place  meant  additional  customers.  I  was  splen 
didly  equipped  for  the  position,  and  my  fame  kept 
steadily  increasing  until  I  thought  myself  on  the 
sure  road  to  success. 

'I  reasoned  the  case  with  myself  and  drew  the  fol- 
97 


My  Mamie  Rose. 

lowing  deductions :  I  was  feared  because  of  my  bru 
tality;  I  was  respected  because  of  my  "squareness," 
which  had  never  been  severely  tempted ;  I  had  more 
money  than  ever  before ;  I  was  wearing  well-made, 
if  flashy,  clothes ;  the  grumbling  envy  of  my  less  for 
tunate  fellows  and  chums  sang  like  a  sweet  refrain 
in  my  ears ;  I  was  strong,  vicious  and  healthy.  Why, 
whv  shouldn't  I  consider  mvself  successful? 


MY  GOOD  OLD  PAL 


CHAPTER  VII. 

MY     GOOD     OLD     PAL. 

HERE  we  have  reached  a  stage  in  my  story  where 
I  must  introduce  to  you  the  dearest  friend  of  all, 
my  good  old  pal,  my  Bill. 

Bill  is  only  a  dog,  but  when  the  doors  of  my  past 
banged  shut  behind  me  he  was  the  only  one  able 
to  squeeze  through  them  into  my  better  life.  He  is 
the  only  relic  of  my  other  days  and  a  living  witness 
of  remembrance. 

And,  who  can  tell,  but  he,  too,  may  have  gone 
through  a  transformation,  if  that  was  necessary  in 
his  case.  He  was  always  faithful,  true  and  loyal, 
and  what  would  you  think  of  me  were  I  to  repudiate 
him  now? 

Those  who  know  me  do  believe  and  you  will  be 
lieve  that  I  have  not  the  shadow  of  desire  to  detract 
one  iota  from  the  work  accomplished  by  my  little 
martyr,  but  I  would  be  grossly  unjust  were  I  to 
deprive  Bill  of  the  credit  due  him  for  his  share  in 
the  making  of  me. 

101 


My  Mamie  Rose. 

I  am  a  man ;  I  feel  it.  My  soul  and  conscience 
tell  me  so,  and  to  all  the  forces  and  factors  that 
combined  in  my  transformation  I  owe  a  debt  of 
gratitude  which  deeds  only — not  words — can  repay. 
If  this  mentioning  of  Bill  shall  demonstrate  to  you 
that  he  was  of  importance  in  my  regeneration,  then 
I  shall  have  paid  part  of  my  debt  to  him. 

Not  very  long  ago  the  rector  of  a  fashionable 
church  in  New  York  City  came  forward  with  the 
blunt  claim  that  dogs  have  more  than  intelligence; 
that  they  have  souls.  Of  course,  this  assertion 
caused  a  storm  of  indignation  and  a  flood  of  dis 
cussion  in  many  circles.  Dogs  were  rated  very  low 
after  that  in  the  list  of  intellectual  values  by  the 
representatives  of  those  circles. 

It  is  fortunate  that  I  am  not  sufficiently  learned  or 
educated  to  have  an  authoritative  or  deciding  voice 
in  the  matter,  for  it  will  save  me  from  criticism 
when  I  become  too  enthusiastic  about  my  good 
dumb,  soulless  brute. 

Yet,  I  wish,  pray  and  hope  that  he  has  a  soul. 

******* 

Between  First  and  Houston  street,  on  the  Bowery, 
was  a  saloon  which  was  known  throughout  the  land 
as  the  "hang-out"  of  the  most  notorious  toughs  and 
crooks  in  the  country.  Still,  the  place  was  nightly 
visited  by  persons  called  "ladies  and  gentlemen," 


My  Good  Old  Pal. 

representatives,  specimens,  of  the  "best"  classes  of 
society. 

I  was  employed  there  as  "bouncer."  My  nightly 
duty  was  to  suppress  trouble  of  any  kind  and  at 
all  hazards. 

The  business  staff  of  my  employer  included  a 
number  of  gentlemen  who  were  renowned  for  their 
deftness  of  touch,  and  who,  at  various  and  frequent 
times,  had  had  their  photographs  taken  free  of 
charge  at  a  certain  sombre-looking  building  in  Mul 
berry  street. 

Their  code  of  ethics — never  adopted  by  the  public 
at  large — was  most  elastic.  Still,  there  were  times 
when  they  did  overreach  the  limits  of  Bowery  eti 
quette  and  then  it  became  my  painful  duty  to  rise  in 
righteous  indignation  and  smite  them  into  seeing  the 
error  of  their  ways. 

One  night  a  middle-aged  man  of  respectable  ap 
pearance,  evidently  the  host  of  a  party  of  "sight 
seers,"  got  into  a  quarrel  with  a  member  of  the 
mentioned  gentry.  There  was  a  rumpus  of  sufficient 
volume  to  distract  the  attention  of  the  other  patrons 
from  their  most  important  duty,  that  of  spending 
their  money,  and  I  was  forced  to  take  a  hand  in  it. 

I  quickly  ascertained  that  the  "sightseer"  and  his 
friends  were  lavish  "spenders,"  and,  with  a  great 
display  of  dramatic  effect,  I  ejected  the  loafer,  who 
103 


My  Mamie  Rose. 

had  already  become  decidedly  threatening.  That, 
a  few  minutes  later  he  found  his  way  back  agaim  via 
the  little,  ever-handy  side  door,  was  a  fact  not  made 
public. 

My  stylish  "sightseer"  had  been  somewhat  sobered 
by  the  occurrence  and  was  most  effusive  in  thanking 
me  for  having  so  gallantly  rescued  him.  A  linger 
ing  sense  of  shame  and  realization  of  his  position 
made  him  turn  homeward,  but  before  leaving  he 
insisted  that  I  should  call  at  his  home  on  the  follow 
ing  day  to  be  properly  rewarded  for  having  pre 
vented  him  from  falling  further  into  the  contumely 
of  contempt. 

Greed  was  then  one  of  my  many  besetting  sins, 
and  without  losing  any  time  I  called  at  the  address 
given  to  me.  It  was  a  rather  pretentious  dwelling 
in  one  of  New  York's  thoroughfares  of  ease  and 
good  living,  and  I  could  not  help  speculating  on  the 
moral  make-up  of  a  man  who  could  leave  this  abode 
of  comfort  and  home  cheer  behind  to  spend  his 
leisure  hours  in  a  "good  time"  at  a  Bowery  dive. 
Even  though  I  could  not  read  or  write  at  that  time, 
and  was  not  sensible  to  the  world's  finer  motives, 
such  an  act  on  the  part  of  a  man'  who  had  all  that 
life  could  give,  seemed  to  be  beyond  the  ken  of 
human  intelligence  and  my  humble  understanding. 
The  reception  accorded  to  me  was  none  too  cor- 
104 


My  Good  Old  Pal. 

dial.  He  seemed  to  regard  me  as  a  blackmailer, 
and,  alas!  he  was  very  nearly  correct  in  his  esti 
mate.  After  entreating  me  not  to  breathe  a  word 
to  any  living  soul  about  his  nightly  adventure,  he 
invited  me  to  follow  him  to  the  stable  in  the  rear  of 
the  house,  where  I  was  to  receive  the  reward  for  my 
righteous  conduct. 

My  hopes  fell  at  this. 

Stables  are  the  lodging  places  of  horses,  and  I 
began  to  wonder  if  he  could  imagine  the  conse 
quences  were  I  to  attempt  to  lead  a  gift  horse 
through  the  streets  down  to  the  Bowery.  The  police, 
if  in  nothing  else,  are  very  careful  in  looking  after 
strayed  horses  and  delight  in  finding,  by  accident, 
a  pretended  owner  at  the  other  end  of  the  halter 
rope. 

I  mentioned  all  this  to  him,  but  he  only  laughed 
and  bade  me  wait.  He  took  me  to  a  stall,  and  there 
pointed  with  pride  at  a  litter  of  pure-bred  bull  pups 
who  were  taking  a  nap  at  the  breast  of  their  mother. 
He  stooped  and,  one  by  one,  lifted  them  up  by  the 
scruff  of  their  necks  for  my  inspection. 

I  felt  disappointed,  saw  my  dream  of  reward 
evaporate,  and  could  not  screw  up  any  interest  in 
the  canine  exhibition. 

My  aversion  for  all  dogs  dated  from  my  years 
as  newsboy  in  Park  Row.  One  homeless  little  cur, 
10$ 


My  Mamie  Rose. 

a  mongrel  looking  for  a  bit  of  sympathy  in  his  mis 
erable  existence,  once  made  friendly  overtures  to 
me.  I  was  still  a  brute — bestial,  cruel — and  sent  the 
poor  thing  yelping  with  a  kick.  As  soon  as  he  had 
regained  his  footing  h«  waited  for  his  chance  and 
then  bit  me  in  the  leg. 

Therefore  I  hated  dogs,  and  reveled  in  the  execu 
tion  of  my  hatred. 

I  watched  the  pups  with  ill-concealed  disgust.  The 
little  fat  fellows  hung  limp  and  listless  until  dropped 
back  into  their  nest.  Just  as  I  was  priming  myself 
to  propose  a  compromise  on  a  cash  basis,  a  little 
rogue,  different  from  his  brothers,  was  elevated  for 
examination.  Instead  of  hanging  quietly  like  the 
rest  of  the  younger  generation  of  the  family,  he 
twisted  and  wriggled,  while  his  eyes,  one  of  them 
becomingly  framed  in  black,  shone  with  play,  ap 
peal  and  good  nature. 

The  shadow  of  a  smile  must  have  been  on  my  lips, 
for  the  owner  placed  the  pup  in  my  arms  and  pre 
sented  me  with  it. 

My  first  impulse  was  to  drop  the  pup  and  kick  it 
back  into  the  stall,  but  the  little  fellow  seemed  to 
consider  his  welcome  as  an  understood  thing,  and 
with  a  sigh  of  content  snuggled  into  the  hollow  of 
my  arm.  He  was  on  my  left  side,  and  his  warmth 


1 06 


My  Good  Old  Pal. 

must  have  been  infective,  for  I  felt  a  peculiar  if  dull 
glow  creep  into  my  heart. 

Without  exactly  knowing  what  I  was  doing,  I 
tucked  my  new  property  under  my  coat  and  made 
my  way  to  my  room.  It  is  a  question  whether  the 
pup  gained  by  the  exchange  of  quarters.  My  room 
was  on  the  top  floor  of  an  old-fashioned  tenement. 
The  ceiling  was  slanting  and  not  able  to  cope  ef 
ficiently  with  the  rain-.  Of  the  original  four  panes  of 
glass  in  the  window,  only  two  remained,  paper  hav 
ing  been  substituted  for  the  others.  There  was  a 
cot,  a  three-legged  chair,  and  a  washstand  with  a 
cracked  basin,  and  a  pitcher, 

I  dropped  the  pup  on  the  cot,  and  intended  to  note 
how  he  would  take  to  his  new  surroundings.  He 
failed  to  notice  them.  First,  he  squatted  down  and 
looked  at  me  intently.  I  must  have  passed  inspec 
tion,  for,  not  seeing  me  draw  closer,  he  came  to  the 
edge  of  the  bed  and  gave  a  little  whine.  I  meant 
to  grab  him  by  the  neck  and  throw  him  to  the  floor, 
but  when  my  hand  touched  him  he  felt  so  soft  and 
warm,  and — well,  I  patted  him.  Of  course,  I  had 
no  intention  of  allowing  a  pup  to  change  the  tenor 
of  my  life.  That  night  I  went  to  the  saloon  at  the 
accustomed  time  and  did  my  "duty"  as  well  as  be 
fore.  However,  at  odd  moments,  I  would  think  of 
the  little  fellotw  up  in  the  room. 
107 


My  Mamie  Rose. 

It  had  been  our  custom  to  spend  the  major  part 
of  the  night  drinking  and  carousing  after  the  close 
of  business.  But  on  the  morninig  succeeding  the 
pup's  arrival,  I  thought  it  best  to  go  to  my  room 
at  once,  as  he  might  have  upset  things  or  caused 
other  damage.  That  is  what  I  tried  to  make  my 
self  believe — a  rather  difficult  feat  in  view  of  the 
pup's  enormous  bulk  and  ferocity — not  caring  to 
interpret  my  feelings.  I  opened  the  door  of  my  attic 
room  and  peeped  in.  The  little  fellow  was  curled 
upon  the  blanket  and  did  not  wake  until  I  stood 
beside  him.  Then  he  lifted  his  little  nose,  recog 
nized  me,  and  went  off  again  into  the  land  of  canine 
dreams. 

As  I  was  burdened  with  the  dog,  I  could  not  let 
him  starve.  Therefore,  my  neighbors  had  the  won 
derful,  daily  spectacle  before  them  of  seeing  me, 
the  champion  rough  and  tumble  fighter  of  the  city, 
go  to  the  grocery  store  on  the  corner  and  buy  three 
cents'  worth  of  milk  and  sundry  other  delicacies 
suitable  to  my  room-mate.  Had  they  taken  it  good- 
naturedly,  I  would  have  felt  ashamed  and  the  pup 
would  have  fared  badly  in  his  nursing,  but  my 
neighbors  sneered  and  smiled  at  my  unusual  proceed 
ing  which  did  seem  rather  incongruous,  and,  mainly 
to  spite  them  and  give  them  a  chance  to  break  their 
amused  silence,  did  I  persist  in  playing  my  new 
108 


My  Good  Old  Pal. 

part,   that   of   care-taker   and   nurse  to  his   royal 
highness,  the  dog. 

I  became  used  to  him,  after  a  fashion,  and,  though 
showering  very  little  affection  on  the  pup,  he  seemed 
to  be  supremely  happy  in  my  company.  We  had  been 
together  for  some  time  before  I  was  sure  of  our 
relative  positions.  Always  rinding  him  asleep  on  my 
return  from  the  saloon,  I  was  surprised  to  hear  him 
move  about,  one  morning,  as  I  was  inserting  the  key 
in  the  lock.  I  opened  the  door,  and  before  me  danced 
the  pup  in  a  veritable  frenzy  of  delight  at  beholding 
me.  This  not  being  a  psychological  essay,  only  a 
plain,  true  story,  I  shall  not  attempt  to  analyze,  but 
will  tell  you  straight  facts  in  a  straight  way. 

It  was  a  new,  a  bewildering  sensation  to  me  to 
perceive  a  living  being  to  be  so  pleased  at  my  ap 
pearance.  It  was  a  new,  a  strange  welcome,  perhaps 
not  entirely  unselfish,  because  milk  and  good  things 
to  eat  generally  came  with  me,  but,  still,  much  purer 
and  more  sincere  than  the  greeting  "hello"  or  loud 
mouthed  invitation  to  drink  vouchsafed  me  by  ribald 
companions. 

I  had  not  yet  softened,  at  least,  did  not  realize 
it,  or  would  not  admit  it,  but  in  occasional,  unob 
served  moments,  a  sporadic,  spontaneous  dropping 
of  the  hard  outer  shell  would  come  to  me  and  I 
would  not  deny  it  until  my  "manhood"  whispered  to 
109 


My  Mamie  Rose. 

me:  "Why,  what  is  the  matter  with  you?  Are  you 
not  ashamed  of  giving  way  to  your  feelings?  You 
are  a  man,  a  great,  big,  tough  man,  and  not  supposed 
to  have  any  softer  emotions.  Get  yourself  together 
and  be  again  a  worthy  member  of  your  class !" 

I  must  have  been  in  one  of  these  softer  moods 
on  the  morning  when  the  pup  gave  his  first  out 
spoken  recognition.  Why  I  did  it,  I  do  not  know, 
but  I  lifted  the  little  fellow  to  my  arms  and  sat 
down  on  the  bed.  To  us  two  a  critical  moment  had 
come  and  it  was  best  to  make  the  most  of  it. 

"Do  you  like  me,  pup?"  I  asked  in  all  serious 
ness. 

Bless  me,  if  that  little  thing  did  not  try  to  bark 
an  emphatic  "Yes !"  Oh,  it  was  no  deep-toned  growl 
or  snarl.  It  was  the  pup's  first  effort  in  the  barking 
line,  and  it  sounded  very  much  like  a  compound 
of  whine  and  grunt.  But  I  understood  and  we 
settled  down  to  talk  the  matter  over. 

I  realized  that  the  pup  was  entitled  to  be  named, 
and  that  matter  was  first  in  order. 

"See  here,  pup ;  you  and  I  are  very  plain  and  ordi 
nary  people,  and  it  wouldn't  do  to  give  you  a  'high- 
toned'  name.  Now,  what  do  you  say  to  'Bill'  ? — just 
plain 'Bill'?" 

The  motion  was  speedily  passed,  and  then  Bill 
and  I  went  to  discuss  other  questions, 
no 


My  Good  Old  Pal. 

"Bill,  you  and  I  aren't  overburdened  with  friends. 
If  you  and  I  were  to  die  at  the  same  moment,  not 
even  a  cock  or  crow  would  croak  a  requiem  for  us. 
Now,  I  am  going  to  make  you  a  proposition.  You're 
friendless,  and  so  ara  I ;  you're  ugly  and  so  am  I ; 
you  belong  to  the  most  unintelligent  class  of  your 
kind  and  so  do  I ;  why  not  establish  a  partnership 
between  us?" 

Bill  had  sat,  watching  my  lips  and  looking  as  wise 
as  a  sphinx,  until  I  asked  the  question.  He  answered 
in  the  affirmative,  'without  a  moment's  hesitation. 

"I'm  glad  you  like  my  proposition,  Bill.  Now 
you  and  I  are  going  to  live  our  own  life,  without 
regard  for  others.  We're  going  to  stick  to  each 
other,  Bill ;  we're  going  to  be  loyal  to  each  other, 
and,  though  we  do  not  amount  to  much  in  the 
world,  to  each  other  we  must  be  the  best  of  our 
class.  We're  going  to  be  true  friends." 

I  took  Bill's  paw,  and,  there  and  then,  we  sealed 
the  compact,  which  was  never  broken. 

Our  relationship  being  founded  on  this  basis,  I 
spent  a  good  deal  of  my  spare  time  in  the  room, 
which  until  Bill's  arrival,  had  been  nothing  but 
my  sleeping  place.  Soon  the  bare  walls  and  the 
dilapidated  condition  of  the  furniture  began  to 
grate  on  me  and,  slowly,  I  improved  our  home.  I 
bought  a  few  pictures  from  a  peddler,  purchased 

HI 


My  Mamie  Rose. 

two  plaster  casts  from  an  Italian,  and  even  em 
ployed  a  glazier  to  put  our  window  in  good  shape. 
Bill  and  I  took  pride  in  our  home,  and  thought  it 
the  very  acme  of  coziness.  You  see,  neither  one 
of  us  had  ever  known  a  real  home. 

But  dogs,  as  well  as  men,  need  exercise,  and,  in 
the  afternoon,  attired  in  our  best — Bill  with  his 
glittering  collar,  on  which  the  proceeds  of  a  whole 
night  had  been  expended — we  took  our  'walk  along 
the  avenue.  He  was  beautifully  ugly,  and  the  usual 
pleasant  witticisms,  such  as,  "Which  is  the  dog?" 
were  often  inflicted  upon  us.  But  we  didn't  mind, 
being  a  well-established  firm  of  partners,  who  could 
afford  to  overlook  the  comments  of  mere  outsiders. 

In  the  midst  of  our  prosperity  came  an  unex 
pected  break.  A  reform  wave  swept  over  the  city 
and  closed  most  of  the  "resorts."  The  loss  of 
my  position  left  us  in  a  badly  crippled  financial 
condition. 

Bill  and  I  had  lived  in  a  style  befitting  two 
celebrities.  Porterhouse  steaks,  fine  chops,  and  cut 
lets  had  been  frequent  items  on  our  bills  of  fare. 
The  drop  was  sudden  and  emphatic.  Stews,  fried 
liver,  and  hash  took  the  place  of  the  former  sub 
stantial  meals,  and  our  constitutions  did  not  thrive 
very  well.  It  did  not  even  stop  at  that,  for,  ere 
long,  we  were  regular  habitues  of  the  free-lunch 


My  Good  Old  Pal. 

counters.  It  often  almost  broke  my  heart  to  see 
my  Bill,  well  bred  and  blooded,  feed  on  the  scraps 
thrown  to  him  from  a  lunch  counter.  But  there 
was  a  dog  for  you !  Instead  of  turning  his  nose  up 
at  it,  or  eating  it  with  growl  and  disgust,  Bill  would 
devour  the  pickled  tripe  or  corned  beef  with  a 
well-feigned  relish.  Between  the  mouthfuls  his 
glance  would  seek  mine  and  he  would  say,  quite 
plainly:  "Don't  worry  on  my  account.  I'm  getting 
along  very  nicely  on  sour  tripe.  In  fact,  it  is 
a  favorite  dish  of  mine." 

You  poor,  soulless  Bill,  oi  whom  many  men, 
with  souls,  could  learn  a  lesson  in  grit  and  pluck! 

During  that  spell  of  idleness  our  hours  in  the 
room  were  less  cheerful  than  before.  I  must  con 
fess  that  my  "blues"  were  inspired  by  material 
cares,  and  not  by  any  regrets  or  self-reproaches; 
but,  whatever  the  cause,  they  were  sitting  oppres 
sively  on  me,  and  I  often  found  myself  in  an  atmos 
phere  of  the  most  ultra  indigo.  It  did  not  take  Bill 
very  long  to  understand  these  moods,  and,  by  right 
of  his  partnership,  he  took  a  hand  in  dispelling 
them. 

He  would  place  himself  directly  in  front  of  me, 
and  stare  at  me  with  unflinching  gaze.  Not  no 
ticing  any  effect  of  his  hypnotic  suggestions,  he 
would  go  further,  and  place  his  paw  on  my  knee, 
"3 


My  Mamie  Rose. 

with  a  little  pleading-  whine.  Having  awakened 
my  attention,  he  would  put  himself  into  proper 
oratorical  pose  and  loosen  the  flood-gates  of  his 
rhetoric. 

"Say,  Kil,  I  gave  you  credit  for  more  sense  and 
courage.  Here  you  are,  sitting  with  your  hands 
in  your  lap,  and  bemoaning  a  fate  which  is  largely 
of  your  own  making.  Besides — excuse  me  for  be 
ing  so  brutally  frank — you  ought  to  be  ashamed 
of  yourself.  Big  and  strong,  you  live  in  idleness,  and 
now  you  kick  because  you  are  down  and  out  and 
deprived  of  your  despicable  means  of  livelihood. 
Owen  Kildare,  brace  up  and  be  a  man.  You  are 
not  friendless.  I  am  here.  True,  I'm  only  a  dog, 
a  soulless  brute,  but  I'm  your  Bill,  and  we're  going 
to  stick  until  we  both  win  out !" 

You  will  not  offend  me  by  calling  me  a  silly 
fool  for  putting  these  words  into  Bill's  mouth. 
Perhaps  I  err  greatly  in  believing  that  Bill  was  not 
without  influence  over  me,  or  that  I  could  under 
stand  him ;  perhaps  it  was  all  imagination,  but,  if 
it  was — and  I  doubt  it — it  was  good,  because,  no 
matter  what  it  may  be,  whether  imagination,  in 
spiration  or  aspiration,  if  it  leads  up  and  not  down, 
it  cannot  be  too  highly  appreciated. 

There  were  times  when  Bill's  speech  was  either 
less  convincing  or  my  period  of  blues  more  pro 
114 


My  Good  Old  Pal. 

nounced  than  usual,  and  then  he  would  resort  to 
more  drastic  measures.  He  undertook  to  prove 
by  the  most  vivid  object  lesson  that  a  buoyancy  of 
spirits  is  the  first  essential.  Dogs,  when  gay  and 
playful,  run  and  romp.  Bill  made  believe  he  was 
gay,  and  romped  and  raced  and  ran.  If  you  will 
take  note  of  the  fact  that  the  exact  measurements 
of  the  room  were  fifteen  by  twelve  feet,  you  can 
easily  imagine  the  difficulties  opposing  Bill's  ex 
ercise.  Snorting  and  puffing,  he  would  cavort  about 
the  narrow  precincts,  now  running  into  a  bedpost, 
now  bumping  against  the  shaky  washstand.  But 
he  always  accomplished  his  object,  because,  be 
fore  his  collapse  from  his  exertions,  he  never  failed 
to  put  me  into  a  paroxysm  of  laughter.  No  "blues" 
could  ever  withstand  Bill's  method. 

Still,  he  was  but  a  brute — a  poor,  dumb  brute. 


KNIGHTS  ERRANT, 


CHAPTER  VIII. 

KNIGHTS  ERRANT. 

AN  episode,  which  occurred  about  this  time,  took 
me  into  latitudes  and  scenes  never  before  dreamed 
of  by  me. 

As  near  as  I  can  figure  it,  the  event  happened  in 
March,  1803.  I  admit  that  in  view  of  the  serious 
ness  of  the  incident  my  indefiniteness  seems  strange, 
but  it  is  typical  of  my  class. 

Since  I  have  moved  in  different  spheres  I  have 
often  wondered  at  this  and  tried  to  explain  it  to 
myself.  No  other  explanation  seems  to  be  at  hand 
except  that  this  disregard  of  dates,  of  time  and  place 
is  a  characteristic  of  the  world  Bohemian,  whether 
on  the  Bowery  or  in  the  Tenderloin.  Recently  I 
had  an  illustration  of  this. 

In  preparing  a  story,  treating  of  a  certain  phase 
of  Bowery  life  for  a  newspaper,  I  bethought  my 
self  of  a  man,  who  had  been  closely  connected  with 
the  very  occurrence  I  intended  to  mention.  I  sent 
for  him  and  he  came  to  my  house,  willing  to  tell 
119 


My  Mamie  Rose. 

me  all  he  could  remember.  He  recalled  it  all  and 
graphically  described  every  detail. 

At  last  I  asked  him  to  tell  me  the  year  and  month 
in  which  it  had  happened.  That  caused  an  im 
mediate  halt  in  the  narrative  and  many  minutes 
were  spent  in  serious  reflection.  It  was  of  no  avail. 
We  fixed  the  date  of  it  to  be  in  "about"  such  and 
such  a  year,  and  such  and  such  a  month,  but  it  was 
impossible  to  accurately  settle  the  year  and  month. 

And  this  in  view  of  the  fact  that  the  occurrence 
had  been  a  cold-blooded  murder,  that  my  informant 
had  been  an  eye-witness  of  it  and  had  spent  several 
months  in  the  House  of  Detention. 

Why  others  are  so  careless  of  dates  I  do  not 
know  and  it  is  not  to  the  point  here,  but  I  do  know 
that  in  the  life  of  the  East  Side,  every  existence  is 
so  crammed  full  of  reality  that  even  the  most  im 
portant  occurrences  are  only  of  temporary  moment. 
There,  events  are  dated  by  events. 

Ask  a  fellow  of  the  Bowery  when  he  had  lost 
his  father  or  mother,  and  he  will  very  likely  answer : 

"Oh,  about  five  or  six  years  ago." 

If  you  insist  on  a  more  precise  answer,  he  will 
scratch  his  head,  ponder  for  a  while,  and  then: 
"Let's  see !  Yes,  the  old  man  died  about  two  months 
after  I  came  from  the  penitentiary  on  my  last  bit, 
and  that  was  somewhere  in  1891." 


Knights  Errant. 

I  was  playing  my  now  familiar  role  of  bouncer 
at  "Fatty  Flynn's^  an  ex-convict,  who  was  running 
a  dance  hall  and  dive  at  34  Bond  street.  It  was  only 
a  few  doors  from  the  Bowery  and  enjoyed  a  great 
vogue  among  the  transient  sightseers,  traversing 
the  Bowery  in  search  of  "good  times." 

On  the  night  in  question,  two  Princeton  students, 
arrayed  in  yellow  and  black  mufflers  and  wearing 
the  insignia  of  their  fraternity,  visited  the  dance 
hall  in  the  course  of  their  lark.  It  was  rather  early 
for  that  sort  of  thing,  the  place  was  half-empty,  and 
I,  to  do  the  honors  of  the  establishment  and  also  to 
speed  their  "buying,"  stepped  over  to  the  two  young 
men  for  a  "jollying"  chat.  « 

They  were  very  young,  had  a  considerable  amount 
of  money,  and  seemed  flattered  by  my  mark  of  dis 
tinction. 

We  spoke  about  "sporting"  life  in  general  and 
they  asked  me  concerning  several  dives  which  were 
the  most  notorious  of  the  day.  As  I  had  worked 
in  every  dive  of  notoriety,  it  was  not  a  difficult  mat 
ter  for  me  to  give  all  desired  information.  This 
seemed  to  invite  their  hunger  for  knowledge  and 
they  invited  me  to  make  the  third  in  their  party  and 
to  spend  the  night  in  going  from  dive  to  dive.  This, 
by  the  way,  this  unofficial  guide-business  is  another 


131 


My  Mamie  Rose. 

way  in  which  the  man,  who  has  to  live  by  his  wits, 
turns  many  an  "honest"  dollar. 

I  could  not  accept  the  invitation  as  they  held  out 
no  financial  inducement  and,  that  not  forthcoming, 
I  felt  myself  in  duty  bound  to  stick  to  my  post  and 
employer.  However,  it  was  a  rainy  night,  business 
was  slow  and  my  chances  for  making  any  "extra" 
money  very  slim,  and  I  entrusted  one  of  my  favorite 
waiters  with  the  diplomatic  mission  of  "boosting  my 
game"  with  the  two  students.  Moved  by  their  curi 
osity  and  the  skillful  strategy  of  my  emissary  they 
made  me  an  offer  which  was  far  more  than  I  had 
expected,  but  which  was  nevertheless  declined  by 
me,  until  my  persistent  refusal  to  utilize  my  services 
in  their  behalf  screwed  their  bid  up  to  a  figure, 
which  I  could  not  conscientiously  decline. 

I  made  my  excuses  to  "Fatty"  Flynn,  and,  that 
done,  we  started  out  on  our  expedition  of  studying 
social  conditions  and  evil.  Measured  by  dive  time- 
standards,  we  had  started  out  too  early.  It  was 
only  nine  o'clock  and  the  "fun"  in  the  dives  hardly 
ever  began  before  midnight.  Still,  thanks  to  my 
knowing  guidance,  we  found  quite  a  number  of 
dance  halls  where  we  could  spend  the  intervening 
hours  to  the  profit  of  the  respective  proprietors. 

One  thing,  which  soon  disgusted  me  with  my 
two  charges,  was  that  they  were  unable  to  stand 

122 


Knights  Errant 

much  drink.  I  warned  them  against  too  much  in 
dulgence,  as  that  would  incapacitate  them  for  the 
pleasures  to  come,  but  youth  is  proverbially  ob 
stinate  and  they  went  their  whooping  way  rejoicing. 

After  having  left  the  "Golden  Horn,"  a  well- 
known  dance  hall  in  East  Thirteenth  'Street,  we 
walked  down  Third  avenue  as  far  as  Twelfth  street, 
where  they  insisted  on  going  into  a  gin-mill,  which 
shed  its  garish  radiance  across  our  path.  It  was 
not  a  regulation  dive  and  only  known  as  the  rendez 
vous  of  a  gang  of  tough  fellows,  who  made  that 
part  of  the  thoroughfare  none  too  safe  for  passing 
strangers.  From  this  it  should  not  be  supposed  that 
they  were  unkempt  in  appearance.  Quite  the  re 
verse,  they  were  rather  well-dressed. 

We  happened  to  drop  into  the  place  at  a  most  in 
opportune  moment.  A  crowd  of  these  fellows  were 
at  the  bar  spending  lavishly  the  proceeds  of  some 
successfully  worked  "trick."  They  were  very  hila 
rious;  so  were  my  proteges,  and  I  was  kept  con 
stantly  on  the  alert  to  prevent  friction  between  the 
hilarious  majority  and  minority.  It  was  not  my 
policy  to  become  embroiled  in  any  useless  rows 
and  I  entreated  the  students  to  continue  on  our  way 
downtown.  But  they  were  not  in  a  condition  to 
listen  to  reasoning  and,  attracted  by  several  unclean 


123 


My  Mamie  Rose. 

stories  told  by  members  of  the  other  faction,  began 
to  treat  the  "house"  and  intermingle  with  them. 

There  seemed  to  be  no  immediate  prospect  of  any 
disturbance,  and  I  permitted  myself  to  leave  the 
room  for  a  few  minutes.  On  my  return  the  scene 
had  completely  changed  The  crowd  had  closed 
around  the  students  and  were  threatening  them. 
I  learned  afterward  that  one  of  the  students  had 
taken  umbrage  at  the  rough  familiarity  of  one  of 
the  gang  and  had  attempted  to  hit  him.  The  situa 
tion  seemed  critical,  but  not  dangerous,  and  I  was 
about  to  smooth  matters,  when  my  eye  caught  the 
reflection  of  some  suspiciously  glittering  object. 
It  was  a  knife  in  the  hand  of  the  tough  offended 
and  only  partly  concealed  by  the  sleeve  of  the  coat. 

He  was  sneaking  around  the  crowd  to  get  beside 
his  intended  prey  and  had  almost  reached  him 
when  I  decided  to  interfere.  I  had  not  measured  my 
distance  well,  for  just  as  I  jumped  between  the  two 
men,  the  knife  was  on  its  downward  path  and  found 
the  fulfillment  of  its  mission  in  my  neck. 

A  three-inch  cut,  a  tenth  part  of  an  inch  from  the 
jugular  vein,  is  not  exactly  the  sort  of  souvenir 
one  cares  to  take  with  him  from  an  evening  dedi 
cated  to  "fun"  and  "good  times."  And  when  it 
confines  one  to  the  hospital  for  several  weeks,  it 
becomes  a  decided  bore.  All  this  was  recognized 

124 


Knights  Errant. 

by  my  new  found  friend,  the  student,  who  had  been 
the  indirect  cause  of  my  disfigurement,  and  hav 
ing  in  the  meantime,  been  expelled  from  his  college 
for  some  wild  escapade,  he  decided  to  show  his  grati 
tude  to  me,  for  what  he  was  pleased  to  call  "having 
saved  his  life,"  by  taking  me  abroad. 

"You  are  not  educated.  Travel  is  the  greatest 
educator,  therefore,  I  will  show  you  the  world." 

It  did  not  require  much  coaxing  to  accept  the 
proposition,  and  after  arranging  for  a  boarding- 
place  for  my  good,  old  Bill,  we  started  out  to  see 
the  world. 

The  next  six  months  were  and  are  like  a  dream 
to  me.  I  was  perfectly  willing  to  have  the  world 
shown  to  me,  but  am  inclined  to  believe  that  I  had 
a  rather  imperfect  demonstrator.  To  be  quite  can 
did,  I  doubted  if  my  fellow-traveler  was  any  more 
familiar  with  the  world  at  large  than  I  was. 

At  any  rate,  after  a  hurried  and  zig-zagged  jaunt 
through  Europe,  we  landed  in  Algiers  with  a  fear 
fully  shrunken  cost  capital.  The  cafes  of  that 
African  Paris  certainly  broadened  my  education. 

An  expected  remittance  from  home  failed  to 
arrive  and  my  partner  fell  into  a  trance  of  deep  and 
pondering  thought.  The  conclusion  of  it  was  that 
we,  by  decree  of  my  "college  chum,"  were  forth 
with  appointed  adventurers,  soldiers  of  fortunes, 
125 


My  Mamie  Rose. 

dare-devils  and  anything  else  that  could  make  us 
believe  our  miserable,  stranded  condition  was  the 
stepping  stone  to  great,  chivalrous  deeds  to  come. 
We  enlisted  in  the  Legion  of  Strangers. 

But  chivalry  loses  half  of  its  charm  when  it 
comes  in  red  trousers,  blue  jacket  and  on  the  back 
of  a  bony  Rosinante,  carrying  you  through  stretches 
and  stretches  of  glowing,  burning  sand.  In  short, 
the  life  of  an  African  trooper,  banished  into  the  in 
terior  and  subsisting  on  food  as  foreign  to  a  Bowery 
stomach  as  the  jargon  spoken  by  his  messmates, 
had  absolutely  no  charm  for  me. 

I  am  not  very  good  at  disguising  my  moods  and 
emotions,  and  that  I  was  homesick,  that  my  heart, 
in  spite  of  the  excitement  of  the  occasional  skir 
mishes,  yearned  for  my  old  Bowery,  became  ap 
parent  to  my  brother  in  misery.  Then,  a  stranger 
coincidence,  it  also  cropped  out  that  my  partner 
would  much  prefer  to  be  on  Broadway  or  Fifth 
avenue  than  in  the  dreary  stockade  of  Degh-del-ker. 

Alas,  then,  the  railroad  system  of  that  part  of 
Africa  was  hardly  in  existence,  and  even  if  it  had 
been,  it  would  not  have  been  advisable  for  us  to  take 
berths  of  civilization,  as  the  government  foolishly 
wanted  to  retain  our  valuable  service.  History  in 
forms  me  that,  shortly  after  our  departure  the  gar 
rison  of  Degh-del-ker  had  several  disastrous  en- 
126 


Knights  Errant 

counters  with  some  of  the  rebellious  tribes,  which 
would  have  probably  resulted  differently  had  we 
two  lent  our  arms  and  strength  to  the  cause  of  the 
tri-colored  flag". 

I  mention  this  merely  for  the  purpose  of  explain 
ing  the  delicacy  with  which  I  have  related  this  ex 
perience.  Neither  my  friend  nor  myself  have  the 
slightest  intention  of  becoming  the  unfortunate 
causes  for  international  complications  between  our 
own  country  and  France,  for  having  bereft  the  lat 
ter  of  two  such  valiant  warriors  as  ourselves. 

We  of  the  Bowery  love  colors  and  I  had  often 
had  a  potent  wish  that  I  could  show  myself  in  all  the 
glory  of  my  gaudy  raiment  to  the  gang  of  my 
old,  beloved  street.  A  Bowery  boy  in  blue  coat  and 
red  trousers,  with  clanking  sabre  by  his  side,  I 
would  have  made  the  hit  of  my  life  if  appearing 
thus  attired  in  my  favorite  haunts,.  However,  this 
pleasure  was  denied  to  me. 

We  managed  to  procure  less  stunning  costumes 
and  successfully  besting  the  sentinels,  started  on 
our  march  for  the  coast. 

It  was  a  fearful  trip.  For  six  long  weeks  we 
plodded  on  through  blinding  sand  and  blistering 
heat,  carefully  avoiding  all  native  villages  and,  yet, 
often  saved  from  perishing  just  in  the  nick  of  time 


127 


My  Mamie  Rose. 

by  tribesmen,  who  found  us  in  helpless  state  in  hid 
ing  places. 

From  the  coast  we  shovelled  our  way  across  the 
Mediterranean  in  the  boiler-room  of  the  good  ship 
St.  Helene.  It  was  suffocating  work,  and  time  and 
again,  we  were  hauled  up  from  the  regions  of  below, 
thrown  on  the  deck,  and  revived  by  streams  of  cold 
water. 

At  last,  we  steamed  into  the  harbor  of  Marseilles, 
where  we  expected  to  find  a  letter  of  credit.  It 
was.  there  and  we  both  fell  on  our  knees  in  the  most 
sincere  thanksgiving  ever  offered. 

Nothing  more  can  be  told  in  relation  to  this  epi 
sode,  excepting  that  we  both  felt  we  had  been  suf 
ficiently  educated  by  seeing  the  world  and  that  we 
were  urgently  needed  at  home. 

We  lost  no  time  in  getting  there. 


xas 


A  PLAYER  OF  MANY  PARTS. 


CHAPTER  IX. 

A    PLAYER    OF    MANY    PARTS. 

You  will  easily  believe  me  when  I  tell  you  that 
my  very  first  task  on  coming  home  was  to  look  up 
my  good,  old  pal,  my  Bill. 

His  temporary  home  was  a  stable.  The  owner 
of  it  was  an  old  acquaintance  of  mine  and  I  was 
satisfied  that  Bill  had  been  well  treated  during  my 
absence.  But  how  I  had  longed  for  him ! 

In  Europe  and  Africa  I  had  seen  dogs  of  purest 
breed  and  best  pedigree,  but,  to  me,  they  were 
only  as  mongrels  when  compared  to  my  Bill,  my 
loyal  boy.  There  had  not  been  a  day  in  our  travels, 
when  I  had  not  asked  myself  the  question :  "I  won 
der  what  Bill  is  doing  just  now  ?" 

And  here  I  was  home  and  rushing  up  to  meet  my 
pal. 

The  owner  of  the  stable  met  me  at  the  door  and 

congratulated  me  on  my  safe  return.  Then  he  grew 

serious  and  began:  "See,  here,  Kil,  whatever  we 

could  do  for  Bill,  we  did,  but  there's  something 

131 


My  Mamie  Rose. 

the  matter  with  him.  He's  off  his  feed  and  not 
half  the  lively  dog  he  used  to  be." 

I  did  not  wait  to  hear  any  more,  but  went  to 
look  for  Bill.  Up  in  the  hayloft  I  caught  a  glimpse 
of  him.  On  a  bale,  nearest  to  the  dilapidated  win 
dow,  there  lay  my  Bill,  the  picture  of  loneliness.  He 
looked  right  straight  in  front  of  him  and  never 
shifted  his  eyes. 

I  stood  and  watched  him  for  a  few  minutes,  then, 
stepping  behind  a  post,  whispered :  "Bill." 

One  ear  went  up,  the  eyes  blinked  once  or  twice, 
but  otherwise  he  remained  unchanged.  He  was 
afraid  to  trust  his  sense. 

Again  I  whispered :  "Bill,  Oh  Bill,"  and  then  hid 
myself. 

I  did  not  hear  him  move,  but  when  I  peeped  out 
from  my  hiding  place  I  found  the  gaze  of  his  true 
eyes  upon  me  and,  with  a  whine  and  cry,  my  Bill 
and  I  were  partners  once  again. 

What  a  meeting  that  was  I  cannot  describe  to 
you,  and,  were  I  to  attempt  it,  you  would  laugh 
at  our  silliness.  Still,  I  think  that  some  of  you 
would  not  laugh  and  you  will  need  no  description 
of  the  scene. 

Tlhat  night  saw  Bill  and  me  back  in  our  ram 
shackle  attic,  and  we  sat  up  late  into  the  morning 
exchanging  experiences. 


A  Player  of  Many  Parts. 

Divedom  was  still  flourishing.  The  reform  move 
ment  had  subsided  after  the  election,  and  things 
grew  livelier  every  day.  In  spite  of  my  ocean  voy 
age  and  change  of  scene,  my  health  was  not  very 
good,  and  it  took  considerable  time  to  eliminate  all 
traces  of  my  African  adventure. 

There  is  an  old  German  saw,  which  reads  that 
any  one  that  goes  travelling  can  tell  a  good  many 
tales  afterward.  Not  being  strong  enough  to  take 
up  my  former  calling  of  "bouncer,"  I  hung  around 
the  back  room  of  Steve  Brodie's  place  on  the  Bow 
ery,  and  became  a  raconteur  par  excellence.  It  was 
not  my  rhetoric  or  elocution  which  made  me  the  lion 
of  the  hour.  It  was  solely  the  recapitulation  of  my 
trip,  and,  particularly  my  African  experience.  This 
should  not  astonish  you,  for,  I  beg  to  assure  you, 
Bowery  boys  are  not  in  the  habit  of  extending  their 
tours  to  the  Dark  Continent,  confining  their  excur 
sions  mainly  to  Hoboken  and  other  convenient  pic 
nic  grounds  along  the  Hudson  or  East  River. 

I  cannot  mention  the  name  of  Steve  Brodie  with 
out  relating  to  you  a  curious  phase  of  fraud,  which 
is  not  entirely  without  humor.  In  saying  this,  I  do 
not  refer  to  Mr.  Steve  Brodie's  accomplishments 
in  the  bridge  jumping  line.  Whether  he  really  did 
jump  from  the  Brooklyn  and  other  bridges  is  a 
question,  which  will  never  disturb  the  equanimity 
133 


My  Mamie  Rose. 

of  the  world's  history.  I  may  have  my  opinion  and 
a  foundation  for  it,  but  have  neither  the  inclination 
or  time  to  air  it 

It  was  not  very  long  before  the  stories  of  my 
travels  had  been  told  and  told  again,  until  every 
one  of  the  habitues  of  the  Brodian  emporium  was 
surfeited  with  them.  This  largely  curtailed  the 
number  of  drinks  bought  for  me  by  admiring  listen 
ers,  and  I  was  sorely  puzzled  how  to  fill  this  aching 
void.  I  was  not  yet  fully  able  to  "hustle"  very 
much,  and  still  stuck  to  the  sheltering  shadow  of 
Steve  Brodie's  back  room. 

It  was  the  veriest  chance  that  put  me  in  the  way  of 
a  new  "graft"  and  again  brought  me  the  surety  of 
food  and  drink.  I  became  a  splendid  exemplifica 
tion  of  the  saying  that  life  is  but  a  stage  and  we 
players  of  many  parts. 

The  scheme  developed  finally  owing  to  prevalent 
hero-worship.  Take  the  greatest  celebrity  of  the 
day,  push  him  into  a  crowd  which  is  not  aware  of 
his  identity,  and  he  will  pass  unnoticed.  But  only 
properly  label  him  and  the  multitude  will  kneel  be 
fore  the  erstwhile  nonentity. 

Now,  while  we  always  have  the  inclination  for 
hero-worship,  heroes  are  rather  scarce  and  not  al 
ways  handy  for  the  occasion.  This  is  especially 
the  case  on  the  Bowery,  where  quantities  of  heroes 
134 


A  Player  of  Many  Parts. 

are  always  supposed  to  be  waiting  around,  "but 
ain't."  Their  supposed  presence  draws  the  usual 
attendance  of  worshippers,  and  it  was  solely  for 
the  purpose  of  not  wishing  to  disappoint  these 
worthy  people  that  Steve  Brodie,  with  my  co-opera 
tion,  decided  upon  a  plan,  which  proved  satisfactory 
from  the  start,  and  was  the  means  of  conveying 
many  pleasant  recollections  into  the  houses  of  many 
uptown  people  and  into  the  rural  homes  of  our  land. 

The  plan  itself  was  very  simple,  and  was  origin 
ated  by  John  Mulvihill,  at  the  time  the  dispenser  of 
liquids  of  the  Brodie  establishment. 

The  Horton  Boxing  Law  had  not  yet  been 
thought  of,  and  the  fistic  cult  had  more  followers 
than  ever  before.  A  few  of  the  lesser  lights  of 
pugilism  had  their  permanent  headquarters  at 
Brodie's,  while  some  aspirants  for  champion  honors 
and  even  real  champions  dropped  in  whenever  hap 
pening  to  be  in  the  neighborhood. 

Brodie's  well  engineered  fame  and  the  many  odd 
decorations  and  pictures  in  the  place  did  not  fail 
to  draw  the  many,  and  they,  after  inspecting  Brodie 
and  the  other  oddities,  invariably  inquired  if  "some 
prominent  fighters"  were  not  present.  As  a  rule, 
Johnnie  Mulvihill  was  able  to  produce  some 
celebrity  to  satisfy  this  craving  of  the  curious,  but 
there  were  times  when  the  stock  of  stars  was  very 
135 


My  Mamie  Rose. 

low;  then  the  mentioned  plan  was  resorted  to.     It 
was  the  inspiration  born  of  emergency. 

On  a  certain  evening  I  happened  to  be  quietly  sit 
ting  in  the  desolated  back-room.  Business  was 
dreadfully  slow.  My  quiet  was  suddenly  disturbed 
by  Mulvihill,  who  came  tearing  through  the  swing 
ing  doors. 

"Say,  Kil,  you  got  to  do  me  a  favor.  Steve  is 
out,  and  there  ain't  a  single  solitary  man  in  the  place 
whom  I  can  introduce  to  the  bunch  I  got  up  against 
the  bar.  They  just  came  in  and  are  fine  spenders, 
but  I'll  lose  them  if  you  don't  do  this  for  me." 

Mulvihill's  request  was  not  fully  understood  by 
me,  yet,  owing  him  many  debts  of  gratitude  for 
having  given  me  a  drink  on  the  sly  and  for  having 
often  shared  his  corned  beef  and  cabbage  with  me, 
I  was  quite  willing  to  do  him  the  favor  desired, 
which,  I  thought,  would  be  nothing  else  than  to 
"jolly"  the  men  at  the  bar  into  the  buying  of  more 
drinks. 

"No,  no,"  interjected  Mulvihill,  "that  ain't  what 
I  want  you  to  do." 

He  immediately  unfolded  his  scheme,  which  was 
nothing  more  or  less  than  that  I  should  face  the 
expectant  as  a  pretended  Jack  Dempsey,  famous 
throughout  the  land  as  one  of  the  best  and  squarest 
fighters  that  ever  entered  a  ring. 

136 


A  Player  of  Many  Parts. 

Naturally,  I  rebelled,  not  wishing  to  expose  myself 
to  an  easy  discovery  of  the  palpable  fraud,  but 
Mulvihill  pleaded  with  his  most  persuasive  voice. 

"Don't  you  see,  those  fellows  don't  know  Jack 
Dempsey  from  Adam.  Any  old  thing  at  all  would 
convince  them  they  are  in  the  presence  of  the  real 
man,  and  you  know  enough  about  Jack  Dempsey 
and  his  history  not  to  be  tripped  up  by  those  fel 
lows,  who  never  saw  a  prize  fight  in  their  lives." 

Who  could  resist  such  gentle  pleading?  I 
could  not,  and  followed  my  mentor  in  the  path  of 
deception. 

Assuming  the  proper  pose,  I  stepped  into  the  bar 
room  and  was  ceremoniously  introduced  by  Mulvi 
hill  to  the  "easies,"  who  had  traveled  quite  a  dis 
tance  to  bask  in  the  radiance  of  a  real  fighter. 

"Gentlemen,  permit  me  to  introduce  you  to  the 
famous  champion  of  the  world,  Mr.  Jack  Dempsey," 
quoted  the  artful  Mulvihill,  and,  thereby,  started 
me  in  a  repertoire,  which,  in  the  number  of  different 
roles  cannot  be  surpassed  by  the  most  versatile 
actor. 

The  visitors  pumped  my  hands  and  arms  with  fer 
vid  enthusiasm  and  showed  their  appreciation  of  the 
honor  afforded  them  by  copious  buying  of  many 
wounds  of  drinks. 


137 


My  Mamie  Rose. 

Well,  the  ball  had  been  set  rolling  and  it  was  a 
long  time  before  it  stopped. 

The  plan  proved  surprisingly  profitable,  at  least 
for  Steve  Brodie,  and  although  Mulvihill  and  I 
had  to  be  satisfied  with  the  crumbs  from  the  feast, 
we  had  a  lot  of  fun  out  of  it  and  that  was  no  mean 
recompense.  You  can  imagine  some  of  it,  when  I 
tell  you  that  rather  often  some  of  the  "sightseers" 
would  bring  themselves  to  my  remembrance  (?)  by 
recalling  to  me  something,  which  had  happened 
to  me  (?)  in  their  own  town,  or  how  they  had  seen 
me  defeat  Tom,  Dick  or  Harry  by  one  mighty 
swing  from  my  tremendous  left. 

If  there  was  fun  in  it,  there  was  also  some  embar 
rassment  attached  to  it.  The  male  sex  is  not  the 
only  one  which  admires  physical  prowess,  and  ladies, 
escorted  by  gentlemen,  appeared  quite  frequently 
at  this  newly  founded  shrine  of  pugilistic  worship. 

I  cannot  recollect  having  ever  been  so  confused 
as  I  was  on  a  certain  night  when  I  was  cast  for 
the  role  of  Jake  Kilrain,  the  man  who  tried  to 
wrest  the  heavyweight  championship  from  the  re 
doubtable  John  L.  Sullivan.  In  my  limited  but  ap 
preciative  audience  were  several  ladies. 

A  short  while  after  my  introduction  I  noticed 
a  lot  of  whispering  among  the  ladies.  One,  the 


A  Player  of  Many  Parts. 

spokeswoman,  stepped  over  to  me  and  presented 
the  guest  of  the  others. 

"Oh,  Mr.  Kilrain,  you  must  have  a  perfectly 
developed  arm  and  chest.  They  are  necessary  in 
your  profession,  are  they  not?  And  may  we  not 
have  the  privilege  of  testing  your  strength  ?" 

Before  I  fully  realized  what  they  intended  to  do 
they  had  gathered  around  me  and  with  many  "oh's" 
and  "oh,  my's"  they  began  to  feel  my  biceps  and 
to  prod  me  in  the  chest. 

Of  course,  this  was  only  an  odd  occurrence,  and 
did  not  happen  every  night,  but  it  did  not  help  me 
to  respect  my  "betters." 

It  was  also  very  embarrassing  when,  at  the  same 
time,  I  had  to  "double"  and  even  "treble."  As  an 
illustration,  just  let  me  tell  you  that  in  one  evening, 
and  at  the  same  time,  I  represented  Jack  McAuliffe 
at  the  head  of  the  bar,  Mike  Boden  at  the  end  of  it, 
and  Johnny  Reagan  in  the  back-room — all  well- 
known  pugilists  and  champions  in  their  class.  My 
audiences  were  especially  annoying  that  night,  hold 
ing  me  down  to  dates  and  details  and  keeping  me 
on  the  edge  of  apprehension  lest  I  should  mix  my 
identities. 

Also,  on  a  certain  auspicious  occasion,  while  por 
traying  a  certain  renowned  pugilist  with  admirable 
accuracy,  the  said  pugilist  happened  to  appear  on 
139 


My  Mamie  Rose. 

the  scene  in  person  and  it  was  only  his  true  friend 
ship  for  me  which  prevented  the  imitation  ending  in 
a  fizzle,  if  not  worse. 

Now,  when  all  that  lies  behind  me  and  belongs 
to  a  different  world  and  personality,  I  cannot  fail 
to  see  the  wrongness  of  it,  but,  at  the  time  of  its  hap 
pening,  I  cannot  deny  having  often  laughed  heartily 
at  the  silliness  of  those  gaping  curiosity-seekers. 

Later,  when  on  account  of  a  disagreement  with 
Steve  Brodie,  I  transferred  my  headquarters  to  the 
palace  of  the  king — Barney  Flynn,  the  King  of  the 
Bowery — at  the  corner  of  Pell  street  and  the  Bow 
ery,  we  instituted  another  fraudulent  scheme  in 
tended  to  interest  and  entertain  our  many  friends 
and  provide  drink  and  small  change  for  us. 

The  palace  of  the  King  of  the  Bowery  is  not 
a  very  imposing  building.  On  the  ground  floor  a 
saloon,  overhead  a  lodging  house,  it  serves  the  two 
purposes  of  refreshing  and  resting  the  subjects  of 
his  majesty.  For  two  weighty  reasons  the  saloon 
has  always  been  the  Mecca  of  the  curious.  It  is, 
so  to  speak,  the  entrance-gate  to  Chinatown  and, 
also,  the  official  address  of  Chuck  Connors. 

Besides  the  transient  crowds  of  nightly  visitors 
to  Chinatown,  the  saloon  is  often  honored  by  calls 
from  literary  personages.  For  some  time,  it  seemed 


g 

5 

g 

3 


.2  .« 


Q 
>, 

0) 

X 


A  Player  of  Many  Parts. 

to  be  the  proper  thing  for  writers  of  a  certain  genre 
to  come  there  to  study  types. 

Right  here  let  me  say,  that,  without  wishing  to 
discredit  any  writer  of  dialect  stories,  I  have  yet 
to  find  the  story  which  presents  the  idiom  of  the 
Bowery  as  it  is  spoken.  I  have  taken  the  trouble 
to  compare  different  stories — each  one  guaranteed 
to  be  a  true  and  realistic  study  of  the  underworld — 
written  by  different  writers  and  the  discrepancies 
in  the  dialect  are  flagrant. 

One,  throughout  his  entire  tale,  puts  "youse"  in 
the  mouth  of  his  most  important  character.  The 
other  only  uses  "ye."  One  spells  the  question : 
"Do  you?";  the  other  phrases  it:  "D'you?" 

Perhaps  this  also  applies  to  other  stories  written 
in  New  England  or  Southern  dialect,  but  whether 
it  does  or  not,  it  seems  to  be  a  case  of  "you  pays 
your  money  and  you  takes  your  choice." 

I  have  yet  to  see  the  "low  life"  story  which  is  not 
studded  with  "cul"  and  "covey."  Take  my  advice 
and  do  not  use  this  form  of  address  on  the  Bowery. 
They  would  not  understand  it  and,  therefore,  would 
feel  insulted. 

Also,  the  men  of  the  East  Side  are  not  so  lacking 
in  gallantry  as  to  call  their  lady  loves  "bundles"  and 
other  similar  names. 

Then,  in  the  matter  of  emphatic  language  the 
141 


My  Mamie  Rose. 

writers  are  far  from  hitting  the  target  The  favonte 
phrase  is  "Wot'ell,"  which  is  a  hundred  leagues 
removed  from  the  distinct  utterance  with  which  this 
dainty  bit  of  conversation  is  used  by  a  Bowery 
boy  in  a  moment  of  rhetorical  flight. 

So  I  might  cite  hundreds  of  instances. 

The  same  carelessness  of  detail  is  manifested  in 
other  things,  when  writing  about  us.  They  are 
not  all  important  errors  or  serious  mistakes,  but 
are  grave  enough  to  prove  the  unreliability  of  those 
"true  East  Side  studies." 

A  writer,  who  for  a  considerable  time,  has  been 
accepted  as  an  authority  on  conditions  in  the  un 
derworld,  is  the  most  profligate  in  calling  beings 
and  things  of  the  sphere  he  describes  by  their  wrong 
name.  He  persists  in  claiming  that  thieves  are 
called  "guns"  by  police  and  fellows.  Every  man, 
who  has  lived  all  his  life  on  the  Bowery,  as  I  have, 
knows  that  "gun"  means  an  important  personage. 
A  millionaire  is  a  "gun,"  so  is  a  prominent  lawyer, 
or  a  politician,  or  a  famous  crook;  in  short,  any 
body  who  is  foremost  in  his  profession  or  calling, 
be  he  statesmen  or  thief,  is  a  "gun." 

The  Bowery  is  not  hard  to  reach  and,  if  so  hv- 
clined,  you  can  easily  test  my  assertion.  Take  a 
page  from  one  of  the  many  East  Side  stories  extant 


A  Player  of  Many  Parts, 

and  read  it  to  a  typical  Bowery  boy  and  he  will  ask 
you  to  interpret  it  for  him. 

The  East  Side  dialect  does  not  abound  in  slang. 
Whatever  of  it  there  is  in  it  has  been  absorbed  from 
the  Tenderloin  and  other  sources.  To  coin  a  funny 
slang  phrase  one  must  have  time  to  invent  and  try 
it.  They  have  no  time  for  this  on  the  East  Side, 
where  even  time  for  schooling  cannot  always  be 
spared.  And  that  accounts  for  ungrammatical  ex 
pressions  and  whimsically  twisted  sentences,  but 
not  for  the  idiotic  gibberish  and  forced  coinages 
of  words  slipped  onto  the  tongues  of  my  people. 

The  courtiers  of  the  King  of  the  Bowery,  being 
a  good-natured  set  of  fellows,  did  not  wish  to  curb 
the  fervency  of  the  literary  "gents,"  and  did  their 
best  to  supply  the  ever-increasing  demand  for  types. 

The  inner  sanctum  of  the  royal  palace  was  divided 
from  the  outer  room  by  the  usual  glass  and  wood 
partition.  As  Barney  Flynn,  the  King  of  the  Bow 
ery,  was  a  genial  and  jovial  monarch,  the  more 
secluded  chamber  did  not  resemble  a  throne-room 
so  much  as  a  rendezvous  of  kindred  spirits.  It  was 
a  specimen  of  another  strata  of  nether  world  Bohe 
mia. 

Tables  and  chairs  were  about  the  place  in  pictur 
esque  disorder.  On  the  walls  were  three  gigantic 
oil  paintings,  "done"  by  a  wandering  Bowery  artist 
143 


My  Mamie  Rose. 

for  his  board  and  lodging,  including  frequent  li 
bations.  In  one  corner  was  the  voluntary  orches 
tra,  consisting  of  Kelly,  the  "rake,"  the  fiddler,  and 
Mickey  Doolan,  the  flute-player.  Their  day's  work 
over — they  were  both  "roustabouts"  along  the  river 
front — the  two  court  musicians  would  take  their 
accustomed  seats,  and,  without  paying  much  atten 
tion  to  those  present,  would  fiddle  and  flute  them 
selves  back  again  to  their  own  green  shores  of  old 
Erin. 

They  are  pathetic  figures,  these  men  of  the  Bow 
ery,  who  live  their  evenly  shiftless  lives  in  dreams 
of  days  passed,  but  not  forgotten. 

Being  directly  in  the  path  to  and  from  China 
town,  Barney  Flynn's  saloon  was,  at  odd  times, 
visited  by  the  sociological  pilgrims  to  this  centre 
of  celestial  colonization.  One  night,  a  writer  hap 
pened  to  stumble  into  the  place.  Whether  his  im 
pressions  were  perceived  in  normal  or  abnormal  con 
dition  is  not  known.  The  "gang"  was  engaged  in 
a  little  celebration  of  its  own,  were  observed  by  the 
writer,  and,  forthwith,  Barney  Flynn's  and  the 
royal  staff  became  a  mine  for  authors  of  low-life 
stories. 

With  the  acumen  acquired  in  my  dive  training, 
I  saw  very  soon  that  those  coming  to  study  us  were 
most  willing  to  pay  for  grotesquely  striking  types. 


A  Player  of  Many  Parts. 

The  "real  thing"  had  very  little  interest  for  them. 
What  were  we  to  do?  To  get  the  money  we  had 
to  be  types,  therefore,  whenever  the  word  was  passed 
that  a  searcher  for  realism — with  funds — had  ar 
rived,  we  put  on  our  masks,  lingual  and  otherwise, 
to  help  along  the  glorious  cause  of  literature. 

No  good  purpose  would  be  accomplished  were 
I  to  mention  the  names  of  authors,  who  portrayed 
us  so  correctly.  They  are  now  celebrities  with  more 
paying  aims.  Their  stories  of  us  are  still  remem 
bered,  but  only  because  of  their  "beautiful  and  pure 
sentiment,"  and  not  because  of  their  "true  realism." 
The  latter  differs  with  every  writer  and  has  be 
wildered  the  casual  reader. 

I  am  strongly  tempted  to  call  by  name  one,  whose 
glory  as  demonstrator  was  dimmed  in  an  unexpected 
manner.  The  writer  in  question  had  come  here 
from  Philadelphia,  preceded  by  a  reputation  for 
his  sympathy  with  those  in  the  slums.  Several 
of  his  "low  down"  stories  had  been  hailed  as  the 
models  for  all  the  other  writers  of  that  tribe. 

With  his  usual  aggressiveness,  not  devoid  of  a 
touch  of  almost  mediaeval  dash  and  chivalry,  this 
young  man  threw  himself  into  the  study  of  New 
York  slums  with  wonted  ardor,  and,  .naturally, 
mastered  the  subject  almost  immediately.  Being 
socially  well-connected,  or,  rather,  being  well-taken 


My  Mamie  Rose. 

up  by  society,  he  had  no  trouble  in  interesting 
his  friends  in  his  hobby.  He  was  not  niggardly 
in  the  spending  of  his  money  and  quite  popular 
on  that  account  with  my  friends  in  Barney  Flynn's. 
As  a  matter  of  fact,  this  promising  young  writer — 
a  promise  since  then  fulfilled — was  a  favorite  of 
the  highest  and  lowest ;  verily,  an  enviable  position. 

With  note-book  in  hand,  this  young  man  sat 
among  us  for  hours,  jotting  down  phrases  and  slang 
expressions,  manufactured  most  laboriously  and 
carefully  for  the  occasion.  The  interest  of  his  friends 
increased,  and  one  night  we  were  honored  by  a 
visit  of  a  large  party  of  ladies  and  gentlemen, 
piloted  by  the  aforesaid  author. 

Before  the  precious  cargo  had  been  unloaded  from 
the  cabs  and  hansoms,  word  had  been  taken  to  the 
back-room.  As  actors  respond  to  the  call  of  the 
stage-manager,  so  did  we  prepare  ourselves  to  play 
our  parts  with  our  well-known  finesse  and  correct 
ness  of  detail.  By  that  I  mean,  that  we  knew  what 
was  expected  of  us  and  that  we  emphasized  cur 
"characteristics"  as  we  had  seen  them  burlesqued 
on  the  stage. 

The  promising  young  writer  was  in  his  glory. 

With  irrepressible  glee,  he  introduced  us,  one  by  one, 

to  his  admirers,  watching  the  effects  of  our  "quaint" 

salutations.     The  chorus  of  enthusiastic  approval 

146 


A  Player  of  Many  Parts. 

was  unanimous.  We  were  "absolutely  charming," 
"perfectly  thrilling,"  and  "too  droll  for  anything." 
Encouraged  by  this  warm  reception  of  our  feeble 
efforts,  we  surpassed  ourselves  and  assault,  battery, 
murder  was  committed  on  the  English  language 
in  most  wilful  frenzy.  Taking  it  all  in  all,  it  was 
a  gem  of  slum  mosaic,  and  is  still  remembered  by 
most  of  the  offenders. 

Having  given  our  performance  and  exhausted 
our  programme,  we  were  told  by  our  friends  how 
"very  glad,  charmed  and  delighted"  they  had  been 
at  meeting  us. 

The  doors  had  barely  closed  behind  the  last  of 
the  promising  young  author's  friends,  before  all 
the  performers  rushed  up  to  the  bar  to  spend  the 
money  given  to  them  for  their  instructive  enter 
tainment.  The  comments  on  the  visitors  were  many 
and  very  much  to  the  point,  but  were  not  uttered 
in  the  manufactured  dialect.  There  was  much 
laughter  and  many  imitations  of  our  late  audience, 
and  none  of  us  had  noticed  that  the  promising 
young  author,  accompanied  by  a  few  of  the  party, 
had  returned  to  look  for  a  pair  of  gloves  for 
gotten  by  one  of  the  ladies.  Part  of  our  conversa 
tion  was  overheard  and  the  laugh  was  at  the  writer's 
expense. 

Of  course,  we  instantly  endeavored  to  rectify 

147 


My  Mamie  Rose. 

our  mistake  and  fell  back  to  addressing  each  other 
as  "cull"  and  "covey,"  but,  somehow,  the  effect 
was  not  convincing. 

One  of  his  friends  turned  to  the  promising  young 
author  on  leaving: 

"Old  man,  you  certainly  deserve  another  medal 
for  this,  but  this  time,  it  should  be  a  leather  one." 

I  did  not  know  then  to  what  the  above  remark  re 
ferred. 


BOWERY  POLITICS. 


CHAPTER  X. 

BOWERY       POLITICS. 

THE  death-knell  of  divedom  had  been  sounded 
by  the  legislature.  Albeit,  it  had  been  sounded  be 
fore,  without  (Stopping  the  dives  from  resurrecting 
themselves.  But  vice  had  become  so  rampant,  so 
nauseating  that  the  righteous  of  the  city  braced 
their  backbones  a  trifle  stiffer  than  usual  and  in 
sisted  on  having  a  committee  of  investigation  ap 
pointed. 

All  the  daily  papers  heralded  the  coming  of  the 
inquisitors  in  big  head  lines,  and  the  inhabitants 
of  divedom  began  to  quake  in  their  shoes  like 
fallen  angels  on  the  eve  of  judgment  day. 

Shortly  before  the  beginning  of  the  upheaval,  I 
had  overcome  one  of  my  many  spells  of  lassitude 
and  gentlemanly  idleness  and  had  accepted  the 
position  of  bouncer  in  the  "Slide,"  the  most  notori 
ous  dive  which  ever  disgraced  a  community. 

When  a  body  is  covered  with  a  cancerous  growth, 
(he  most  dangerous  ulcer  is  the  first  to  receive  the 


My  Mamie  Rose. 

surgeon's  attention.  For  that  reason,  the  "Slide" 
was  the  first  to  be  put  under  the  prying  probe. 
The  investigation  was  thorough.  The  investigators 
and  prosecuting  officials,  stimulated  by  fear  of  public 
censure  and  thoughts  of  political  advancement,  were 
merciless,  and,  as  a  consequence,  the  "Slide"  was 
closed  forever  and  the  nominal  proprietor  -sent  to 
jail. 

Without  waiting  for  further  developments,  the 
other  dive-keepers  retired  from  business  and  a  gen 
eral  cleansing  process  struck  all  quarters  of  the 
city. 

The  immediate  effect  of  this  was  that  a  shifting 
of  quarters  of  the  vicious  began.  The  harlots,  be 
reft  of  their  known  places  of  business,  hid  them 
selves  in  the  obscurity  of  virtuous  surroundings, 
and  the  male  element  of  the  lowest  dives  congre 
gated  on  the  Bowery,  ever  the  dumping-ground  of 
human  scum  and  offal.  In  a  short  time,  the  Bowery 
was  full  of  a  muttering  crowd  of  able-bodied  men, 
each  one  cheating  the  world  out  of  an  honest  day's 
labor,  all  proclaiming  loudly  at  the  injustice  which 
deprived  them  of  their  "living."  Even  the  recol 
lection  is  loathsome. 

In  company  with  a  number  of  fellows  who,  like 
me,  <wiere  "thrown  out  of  work"  by  this  "uncalled-for 
interference,"  we  established  headquarters  in  a  gin- 
152 


Bowery  Politics. 

mill  owned  by  a  legislator.  As  a  matter  of  course, 
the  "back-room,"  seemingly  a  legislative  annex, 
was  very  much  in  evidence,  and  by  no  means  sub 
dued  in  its  proceedings.  If  anything,  the  business 
behind  the  "partition"  had  increased  in  volume 
since  the  other  dives,  operated  by  less  influential 
citizens,  had  been  obliged  to  close.  So  we  have  here 
another  of  the  many  paradoxes  of  our  political 
conditions.  While  his  fellow-legislators  were  scour 
ing  the  city  with  really  commendable  zeal  to  rend 
the  evil-doer  limb  from  limb,  this  being  of  their 
kin  could  be  seen  daily  in  front  of  his  hall,  sunning 
himself  in  the  radiance  of  his  increased  prosperity 
and  influence,  and  looking  with  self-satisfied  smile 
across  Chatham  Square  at  the  closed  windows  of 
minor  dives. 

Yes,  as  the  Romans  clothed  the  men  of  wisdom 
and  love  of  country  in  the  flowing  robes  of  dignity 
and  called  them  patriots,  statesmen  and  senators,  so 
do  we  take — take  by  the  will  of  the  people — the 
men  fat  of  jowl  and  fat  of  paunch  from  beneath  us 
and  place  them  above  us  in  the  seats  of  the  mighty 
and  give  them  power  over  us.  And  if  you  would 
growl  at  my  saying  "from  beneath  us  to  above 
us,"  and  would  wrathfully  confront  me  with  the 
slogan  of  political  and  other  equality,  I  -would  not 
wish  to  st<*nd  in  your  WAV  of  being  their  equal,  but 

153 


My  Mamie  Rose. 

would  have  trifling  respect  for  your  integrity.  As 
I  tell  the  stars  by  seeing  them  and  find  but  small 
difference  in  their  lustre,  so  do  I  tell  the  rascals  by 
their  rascality,  and  there  is  small  difference  in  the 
degrees  of  rascality. 

Senators !  Rome  and  Albany !  Would  the  differ 
ence  of  time,  of  centuries,  were  the  only  one  be 
tween  them! 

In  all  governments  by  and  for  the  people,  the 
making  of  the  nation  lies  with  the  common  people ; 
that  great  mass,  which  you  would  call  "rabble" 
were  it  not  for  the  continental  sound  of  the  word 
and  the  danger  of  being  quoted.  An  ever-watchful 
press  keeps  its  eye  on  you,  and  would  readily  pil- 
lorize  you  as  an  offender  against  the  most  sacred  of 
our  possessions  and  privileges ;  our  sacred  freedom ; 
our  sacred  equality;  our  sacred  franchise,  and,  by 
no  means  lastly,  our  sacred  screaming  eagle,  scream 
ing  ofttimes  from  veriest  agony.  The  buncombe  of 
press  and  loud-mouthed  gabbers  has  decreed  it  to 
be  treason  to  see  the  truth  and  to  speak  it,  and  you 
must,  to  be  above  suspicion  of  being  a  traitor  to  the 
land  you  love,  on  the  Fourth  of  July  let  off  in 
sissing  streams  of  pyrotechnics  your  patriotism, 
which,  after  its  one  gala  day,  is  forgotten  for  the  rest 
of  the  year  in  the  strenuous  pursuit  of  getting  all 
you  can  out  of  "what's  in  it." 

154 


Bowery  Politics. 

The  common  people  of  the  fields  and  meadows 
plow,  sow  and  reap  their  harvest.  They,  pluck  the 
weeds  from  out  among  the  useful  growth  and  stamp 
them  under  foot.  The  common  people  of  our  cities 
live  "downtown" — that  vague  and  indefinite  region 
— in  tenement  and  barracks.  (Notice  how  "down" 
and  "common"  always  run  together) . 

They  have  no  knowledge  of  agriculture,  and,  with 
their  seldom  sight  of  plant  or  flower,  even  the  stink- 
weed,  for  it  is  leafed  and  green,  finds  a  welcome  and 
place  among  them  through  their  ignorance.  Yes, 
more,  it  is  cared  for  and  nurtured  until,  as  all  ill- 
weeds,  it  grows  to  tremendous  proportions,  over 
shadowing  and  dwarfing  those  who  have  spared  its 
life  instead  of  plucking  it  out  by  the  roots  and  press 
ing  the  heel  upon  it. 

Who  plants  the  weeds?  Who  is  their  sower? 
They  care  not. 

Does  not  the  same  blessed  sunshine  and  dew  of 
heaven  fall  upon  them  as  on  the  corn  and  roses? 
And  do  they  not  get  more  of  it  than  the  flower  and 
the  fruit-bearing  plant?  For  they  are  greedy  and 
strive  for  that  which  is  not  theirs  according  to  merit. 

Not  most,  but  all  the  men,  who  played  their  part 
in  our  nistory  so  well  as  to  be  immortalized  forever 
were  self-made  from  the  field  and  farm.    Remember 
that  there  they  destroy  the  weeds! 
155 


My  Mamie  Rose. 

Not  most,  but  all  the  men,  who  have  made  it  a 
risk  to  a  fair  name  and  reputation  to  become  ac 
tively  engaged  in  the  affairs  of  one's  own  country 
and  state  were  self-made  from  the  slums  and  gut 
ters,  with  their  only  chance  of  immortalization  via 
Rogues'  Gallery.  We  of  the  city  do  not  destroy 
the  weeds! 

They  of  the  gutter,  who  have  been  forced  upon 
and  above  the  multitude,  if  not  caught  or  not  too 
notoriously  prominent,  keep  the  data  of  their  suc 
cess  and  formulative  period  secret.  If,  however, 
they  run  foul  of  the  calcium,  which  often  strikes, 
unexpectedly,  dark  places,  they  become  arrogantly 
defiant  in  their  ill-gotten  might.  Even  against  the 
scorn  of  the  decent  and  to  the  awe  of  their  own 
kind,  they  swing  themselves  onto  the  pedestal  of 
the  self-made  man  and  strike  their  pose.  All  that  is 
intended  as  a  parallel  to  several  rail-splitting  and 
canal-boating  men  in  our  little  history,  who,  as  a 
"patriot"  remarked,  deserve  a  whole  lot  of  credit 
"even  if  they  was  farmers." 

Then,  when  forced  into  the  public  focus  from 
their  disturbed  obscurity,  is  theirs  the  cry  of  re 
pentance  ?  Do  they  sob  and  cry :  "Peccavi !  Yes, 
I  have  sinned !  I  have  wronged  you  and  my  coun 
try!  Have  mercy  and  forgive!" 

If  it  were  that  it  would  be  the  cry  of  a  tortnred 
156 


Bowery  Politics. 

soul,  rotten  and  distorted,  yet  still  a  soul  and  worthy 
of  the  chance  of  atonement.  No ;  what  reaches  us 
from  the  usurped  pedestal  is  the  self-satisfied  grunt 
of  the  swine :  "Look  and  behold  !  You  know  or  can 
surmise  what  I  have  been !  Look  now  and  wonder 
at  what  I  am  and  how  I  got  there!" 

Surely  this  affront  is  resented  and  the  daring 
knave  pulled  from  his  lofty  perch  to  be  punished  for 
his  insults  and  ill  deeds  ?  Some  are  foolish  and  un- 
American  enough  to  suggest  such  a  course  of  pro 
ceeding.  But  what  really  does  happen  is  a  taking 
up  of  that  refrain  of  self-adulation  by  the  admiring 
throng.  There  in  almost  worshipping  attitude,  we 
find  that  the  chicaning  game  of  politics  makes  mates 
of  all  sorts  and  conditions  of  men,  and  pickpocket 
and  tax-paying  citizen,  cut-throat  and  that  very 
peculiar  animal,  the  intelligent  workingman,  all 
kneel  in  equal  humility  before  the  rum-soaked  idol 
of  their  own  creation. 

A  subject  for  deep  guesswork  is  where  the  work 
ingman  keeps  his  well  advertised  intelligence.  To 
claim  to  be  one  thing  and  then  prove  yourself  the 
opposite,  which,  in  this  case  means  a  fool,  is  a  rather 
absurd  proceeding.  Presumably  a  good  part  of  that 
intelligence  is  occupied  in  defending  their  rights, 
which  nobody  assails.  Howling  and  haranguing  do 
not  require  much  intelligence,  and  of  both  the  "in- 
157 


My  Mamie  Rose. 

telligent"  workingman  does  more  than  enough  and 
to  no  purpose.  When  the  time  of  his  usefulness  ap 
proaches — although  it  should  be  the  time  for  him 
to  assert  himself — he  stops  his  howling  and  listens 
to  the  strongly  flavored  persuasion  of  the  wily  poli 
tician — the  weed  he  permitted  to  grow  and  to  pros 
per — and  becomes  the  gently  led  sheep,  to  awaken 
after  election  and  find  himself  the  twin  brother  of 
the  donkey.  They  will  not  recognize  that  far  bet 
ter,  by  virtue  of  his  sincerity,  would  be  the  sincere 
demagogue  as  leader  than  the  dishonest  politician 
of  the  gutter  breed. 

No  man  can  choose  his  birthplace.  Mansion  and 
tenement  have  each  furnished  their  quota  of  honest 
and  dishonest  men.  If  he  of  the  gutter  gets  above 
it  and  gets  there  by  means  which  are  those  of  a  man 
and  an  American,  he  will  not  lack  the  respect  and 
esteem  of  those  whose  ranks  he  has  fought  to  join. 
That  is  what  proves  this  the  land  of  opportunities 
and  therein  lies  true  equality. 

There  is  another  way  to  get  out  of  the  gutter, 
and  that  was  the  way  employed  by  statesmen  of  the 
stamp  of  the  Hon.  Michael  Callahan,  of  the  State 
Legislature. 

Mike  Callahan's  place  in  horticulture  was  most 
decidedly  among  the  rankest  weeds.  "Lucky"  Cal- 
larrn,  as  he  was  sometimes  called,  had  escaped  the 
158 


Bowery  Politics. 

inconvenient  calcium  of  public  opinion,  and,  on  that 
account,  little  was  known  about  his  origin,  except 
by  his  intimates.  Perhaps  bootblack,  perhaps  news 
boy,  he  had  early  learned  to  make  himself  subserv 
ient  to  his  superiors,  genial  to  his  equals  and  con 
descending  to  his  inferiors.  Of  course,  these  social 
lines  were  drawn  by  him  according  to  his  viewpoint. 

Mike's  striving  for  political  recognition  was  ag 
gressive  from  the  start,  and,  having  no  other  aim  or 
ambition,  he  threw  himself  into  the  game  of  in 
trigue  and  wire-pulling  with  all  his  energetic  inten 
sity.  Never  questioning,  always  obeying,  he  be 
came  the  ideal  plastic  mass  to  be  molded  by  the  en 
terprising  chiefs  of  the  organization.  His  promo 
tion  from  ward  heeler  to  captain,  and  from  captain 
to  the  leadership  of  the  district  was  his  logical  re 
ward. 

Yet,  even  in  spite  of  his  usefulness,  his  ascendancy 
to  the  leadership  was  not  accomplished  in  a  day. 
He  did  not  mind  this  much,  his  bulldog  tenacity 
keeping  him  alive  to  his  ultimate  purpose.  His 
manhood  and  individuality,  whatever  they  might 
have  been,  had  long  been  sacrificed. 

To  strengthen  his  own  power  in  the  district  it  was 
Necessary  to  weaken  the  influence  of  the  incumbent 
leader,  and,  to  effect  this,  knowing  nothing  of 
diplomacy,  Callahan  resorted  to  plain  treachery 


My  Mamie  Rose. 

The  fact  that  the  leader  to  be  deposed  had  been  his 
benefactor  and  stanch  friend  was  of  small  moment. 
Certainly  Mike  was  sorry,  but  what  could  he  do? 
Take  a  back  seat  and  beat  himself  out  of  his 
chances?  "Not  much,"  said  he,  and  invented  the 
useful  and  often  quoted  phrase,  "Friendship  in 
poker  and  politics  don't  go." 

Mike's  assumption  of  the  leadership  was  worked 
by  decisive  methods.  There  was  no  vagueness  about 
him.  The  great  leaders  in  the  history  of  nations 
were  endowed  with  attributes  and  traits  of  the  high 
est  and  noblest  order.  Mike's  most  pronounced  at 
tribute  in  his  functions  as  leader  was  directness. 
It  was  this  that  enabled  some  of  the  brilliant  young 
men  of  the  party  press  to  apostrophize  him  as 
"rugged,  bluff,  stalwart,  frank  and  straightfor 
ward." 

The  district  contained  a  population  in  which  the 
intelligent  workingman  was  not  greatly  represented. 
The  few  of  them  who  lived  in  the  many  lodging 
houses  had  very  little  belief  left  in  the  dignity  of 
labor  and  toiled  only  enough  to  "square"  them 
selves  with  their  landlords  and  liquor  dealers.  Still, 
they  were  of  use.  They  could  talk  beautifully  about 
the  rights  of  labor,  and  were  encouraged — before 
election  day — to  spout  grandiosely  about  the  tyran- 


160 


Bowery  Politics. 

nical  oppression  of  the  American  workingman  by 
the  opposing  faction. 

The  great  majority  of  the  voters  in  the  district 
belonged  to  the  class  of  grafters,  and  for  that  rea 
son  if  no  other,  the  Hon.  Michael  Callahan  of  the 
State  Legislature  was  their  born  leader. 

Callahan  was  at  his  best  shortly  before  election. 
Then  no  man  or  woman — unfortunately  the  ladies 
of  the  district  would  indulge  too  strongly — had  to 
linger  in  the  throes  of  the  law.  It  was  the  sacred 
duty  of  the  leader  to  call  daily  at  the  police  court 
to  save  his  constituents  and  their  "lady  friends" 
from  their  impending  fate. 

On  the  eve  of  election  no  time  had  to  be  wasted 
in  speculating  on  how  much  the  free  and  independ 
ent  voter  could  expect  to  receive  for  the  exercise  of 
his  sacred  franchise.  According  to  the  amount 
sent  down  from  the  headquarters  of  the  organiza 
tion,  Mike's  ultimatum  would  settle  the  market  price 
of  votes.  One  or  one  and  a  half,  or  two  dollars  were 
the  rates  paid,  although  the  last  named  rate  was  only 
given  to  liquidate  the  voter's  claim  at  the  most  crit 
ical  periods.  In  this  way  the  voter  could  figure  with 
certainty,  and  with  very  little  interruption  resume 
his  dissertation  on  the  betterment  of  municipal  and 
national  politics. 

The  most  important  events  in  our  history  were 
161 


My  Mamie  Rose. 

conceived  amidst  surroundings  of  severest  sim 
plicity.  No  marble  hall,  no  lofty  council  chamber, 
just  the  Common  with  its  green  sward  and  sturdy 
oak  was  the  favorite  meeting  place  of  our  fore 
fathers.  In  the  shadow  of  the  mighty  tree  they 
spoke  of  liberty,  of  the  rights  of  man  and  of  the  wel 
fare  of  our  country,  and  we  reap  to-day  the  benefit 
of  their  integrity,  in  spite  of  the  machinations  of 
politicians,  whose  very  thoughts  are  a  pollution  of 
patriotism. 

A  careful  and  thoughtful  student  of  American 
history,  the  Honorable  Mike  tried  to  live  up  to  tra 
dition  as  much  as  possible.  Customs  have  changed, 
civilization  has  progressed,  real  estate  has  risen  in 
price,  and  the  political  leader  of  to-day  has  felt 
himself  obliged  to  substitute  the  gin-mill  and  the 
dive  for  the  Common  of  old.  Besides,  "there  is  not 
much  in  Commons,"  excepting  when  the  city  fathers, 
in  the  goodness  of  their  charitable  hearts,  decide  to 
create  another  breathing  place  and  playground  for 
the  poor  children  of  the  East  Side,  and,  thereby 
can  get  a  "chance  at"  the  property  owners  of  the 
site. 

When  one  is  a  leader,  one  must  do  as  leaders  do. 
Mike  could  not  swerve  from  the  accustomed  prac 
tice,  and,  nolenc  volens,  found  himself  the  pro 
prietor  of  a  dive.  But,  forced  into  this,  he  had  at 
162 


Bowery  Politics. 

least  the  satisfaction  of  opening  this  adjunct  to  his 
legislative  office  on  the  Common,  or  Square,  as  it  is 
now  called.  True,  there  was  no  sturdy  oak  and  no 
green  sward,  but  there  were  elevated  railway  pil 
lars  and  their  shadows  were  quite  sufficient  for  the 
practice  of  side  issues  in  politics.  The  oak  bears 
only  acorns.  The  pillars  and  their  shadows  bore 
better  fruit  of  silvery  and  golden  sheen,  and  their 
sturdiness  was  often  welcome  to  the  backs  of  the 
many  weary  pilgrims  who  had  traveled  far  to  imbibe 
the  pure  draught  of  American  patriotism  as  dis 
pensed  by  the  Hon.  Michael  Callahan  of  the  State 
Legislature. 

With  the  characteristic  modesty  of  great  men, 
Mike  refrained  from  making  the  exterior  of  his 
place  too  showy.  This  superficial  attraction  to  his 
resort  was  absolutely  needless,  as  his  more  lasting 
fame — some  detractors  called  it  "disgraceful  noto 
riety" — was  firmly  established.  Did  he  not  have  sev 
eral  fist-fights  with  "officious"  police  officers  to  his 
credit,  and,  did  he  not  openly  dare  and  defy  all 
known  authorities  to  "monkey"  with  him.  He 
feared  no  man  but  one,  and  that  one  only,  because 
he  was  a  more  successful  thug  than  himself  and 
the  Great  Leader  and  Chieftain. 

Dives  of  a  certain  kind  make  no  effort  to  attract 
transient  trade  by  bright,  or,  at  least,  neat  and  clean 
163 


My  Mamie  Rose. 

exteriors.  Their  business  is  not  supplied  by  the  hon 
est  man,  who  is  looking  for  an  honest  place  to  have 
an  honest  drink.  They  depend  on  that  flotsam 
and  jetsam  that  can  find  a  dive  blindfolded.  Calla- 
han's  place  was  more  suggestive  than  attractive  in 
its  front  and  the  interior  was  fairly  dazzling  in  its 
austere  plainness.  Sawdust  and  traces  of  former 
expectorations  were  the  most  evident  features  in 
the  bar-room,  which  only  ran  the  length  of  the  bar. 
At  the  end  of  it  a  partition  jealously  claimed  the  rest 
of  the  space  for  the  back-room.  There,  and  not 
in  front,  was  the  real  business  transacted.  The 
front,  a  pretense  of  respectability ;  the  back,  without 
any  pretense  whatsoever. 

I  cannot  tell  you  what  furnished  the  real  at 
traction  of  the  back-room.  A  minimum  clearance 
of  space  in  the  centre  of  the  room  was  reserved 
for  dancing  and  surrounded  by  tables  and  chairs 
which  were  nightly  occupied  by  young  men  and 
women,  many  of  whom  had  been  born  and  brought 
up  in  the  immediate  neighborhood,  under  the  very 
eyes  of  the  legislating  dive-keeper.  But  that  fact 
made  no  difference  to  this  vile  thing,  empowered 
by  our  sanction  to  make  laws  which  were  to  safe 
guard  homes,  property  and  life. 

And  there,  safe  in  the  protecting  radius  of  our 
friend  and  statesman,  we  found  a  resting-place 
164 


Bowery  Politics. 

for  our  enforced  retirement  from  dive  activity,  and 
there,  in  all  my  uncleanness,  there  came  to  me  the 
sweet  messenger  of  a  newer,  better  life,  and  took 
me  from  it  by  the  all-powerful  persuasion  of  an  un 
quenchable  love. 

Before  telling  you  how  this  miracle  transformed 
me  in  a  way,  which  will  tax  my  power  of  descrip 
tion  to  the  utmost,  I  must  relate  to  you  the  one  and 
only  attempt  we,  myself  and  two  cronies,'  made  to 
get  away  from  a  life  which  was  the  only  one  wfe 
knew. 


A  PILGRIMAGE  TO  NATURE. 


CHAPTER  XL 

A  PILGRIMAGE  TO  NATURE. 

IT  was  in  May.  The  side-walk  in  front  of  Mike 
Callahan's  dive  was  wide,  and  we,  the  gang  of  dis 
charged  dive  employees,  were  in  the  habit  of  loung 
ing  on  the  empty  beer  barrels  along  the  curb  or  stick 
ing  ourselves  up  against  the  swinging  doors  of  the 
place.  People,  whom  we  knew  from  having  met 
them  in  the  "better"  days,  when  we  were  still  work 
ing",  often  passed  by  and  were  eagerly  hailed  by  us 
in  the  hope  that  they  might  buy  a  drink  for  our 
thirsty  throats. 

Corner  loafers  are  despised  by  all  people  who  lead 
useful  lives,  and  justly  so.  Still,  there  is  something 
very  moving  in  thinking  about  the  dreary  existence 
of  these  fellows.  With  brains  as  empty  as  their 
pockets,  they  assemble  with  praiseworthy  regularity 
at  their  open-air  clubs,  and  waste  their  days  in  pes 
simistic  conjectures.  The  loafer  is  a  born  pessimist 
and  cynic.  No  matter  what  subject  or  event  you 
may  mention  to  him,  he  will  sneer  at  it  and  promptly 
proceed  to  pick  it  to  pieces.  His  criticisms  are  as 

169 


My  Mamie  Rose. 

acidly  sarcastic  as  his  excuses  are  ingenious.  Ask 
him  his  opinion  about  the  work  done  by  some 
skilled  mechanic,  and  he  will  find  a  multitude  of 
faults  and  then  expound  how  the  job  ought  to  have 
been  done.  Surprised  at  his  technical  knowledge 
you  ask  in  a  mild  way  why  he  does  not  put  his 
evident  ability  to  practical  use,  and  are  forthwith 
shocked  by  suggesting  such  a  thing  to  a  man,  who 
has  such  a  wealth  of  haughty  and  convincing 
reasons  for  remaining  a  loafer. 

Loafers  are  forever  hovering  in  the  ante-room  of 
crime.  If  his  Satanic  Majesty  bethinks  himself  of 
his  own  and  calls  them,  they  willingly  and  without 
compunction,  do  any  crooked  commission  provided 
it  does  not  require  too  much  physical  courage.  After 
due  time,  crime  seems  easy,  they  have  not  yet  been 
caught,  and  from  their  familiarity  with  evil-doing, 
and  not  because  of  any  lately  awakened  courage, 
they  commit  deeds  which  are  called  "desperate" 
by  every  conscientious  reporter. 

Jack  Dempsey,  Frank  Casey  and  myself  formed 
a  sort  of  inner  circle  in  the  larger  gang.  We  often 
philosophized  together,  exchanged  ideas  and  com 
mented  on  things  in  general.  At  one  of  our  con 
fabs,  Frank  Casey  seemed  to  be  entirely  out  of 
humor. 

"What's  the  matter  with  you,  Frank?"  I  asked. 
170 


A  Pilgrimage  to  Nature, 

"What  do  you  think  there  is  ?  There's  nothing  the 
matter  with  me,  excepting  that  I'm  dead  sick  o' 
this  game."  We  could  see  he  was  deeply  moved 
by  some  unsuspected  emotion  and  were  deeply  in 
terested  in  its  development 

"I  tell  you  what  I'd  like  to  do,"  he  resumed. 
"I'd  like  to  cut  this  all  out  and  go  to  work  some 
place.  There's  nothing  in  this  kind  o'  life  and  it's 
the  same  every  day.  See,  it's  years  and  years 
since  I  done  what  you  may  call  an  honest  day*« 
work." 

"Ah,  you're  only  kidding!" 

"Kidding?"  he  echoed,  indignantly.  "Say,  Kil, 
and  you,  too,  Dempsey,  I  was  never  more  serious 
in  me  life.  What  are  we  getting  out  o'  this?  It's 
hanging  round  here  all  day,  looking  for  graft  and 
the  few  pennies  to  go  to  bed  with  or  to  buy  a  beef- 
stew  ;  and  when  a  fellow  does  make  a  piece  o'  money, 
does  it  do  him  any  good?  Not  on  your  life!  If 
you  flash  it,  you  got  to  blow  it  in  for  booze,  and  if 
you  don't  they  think  you're  no  good,  and  the  whole 
gang  gets  sore  on  you.  A  fellow  that's  working 
and  making  his  dollar  and  a  half  or  two  dollars 
a  day,  is  better  off  than  the  whole  bunch  of  us 
taken  together." 

"For  the  love  of  heaven,  you  ain't  thinking  about 
going  to  work  ?" 


My  Mamie  Rose. 

"That's  just  what  I'm  doing,  and  the  sooner 
I  can  start  in  the  better,"  attested  Casey  with  em 
phasis. 

A  warm  discussion  followed.  It  is  hard  to  tell 
if  it  was  the  novelty  of  the  proposition  or  Casey's 
evident  sincerity,  but  Dempsey  and  I  began  to 
consider  it  very  seriously. 

"Say  Casey,"  I  asked,  "supposing  the  three  of 
us  really  wanted  to  go  to  work,  where  could  we  get 
it?  They  don't  take  men  like  us  in  shops  or  fac 
tories,  where  there  are  a  whole  lot  of  trained  help 
looking  for  work  every  day.  So,  even  if  we  wanted 
•work,  we  couldn't  get  it." 

"Is  that  so  ?  You're  talking  as  if  New  York  City 
is  the  whole  thing.  What's  the  matter  with  the 
country?  That's  where  we  ought  to  go,  because 
we'll  never  amount  to  anything  here.  In  the  first 
place,  even  if  we  was  to  get  jobs  here,  the  three  of 
us  would  be  going  on  a  drunk  on  the  first  pay 
day  and  stay  on  it  until  we're  broke.  But  in  the 
country  you  ain't  got  no  chance  to  spend  your 
money,  and  it's  healthy  and  it's  better  anyway." 

The  surety  of  Casey  amused  me. 

"Will  you  tell  me  where  you  have  ever  been  in 
the  country  to  know  so  much  about  it,  and  where  you 
got  your  information  from?" 

"That  don't  make  no  difference,"  insisted  Casey 
172 


A  Pilgrimage  to  Nature. 

stubbornly,  "I  know  there's  lots  o'  fellows  going 
over  to  Philadelphia  or  Jersey  or  some  place  over 
there  every  year  about  this  time,  and  they  come 
back  like  new  and  with  money  from  picking  straw 
berries  and  whatever  else  there's  growing  out  there." 

We  put  our  heads  together,  discussed  the  matter, 
came  to  the  conclusion  that,  surely,  we  would  not 
be  in  worse  circumstances  in  the  country  than  we 
were  in  the  city,  and  resolved  to  try  our  luck  at 
strawberry  picking. 

To  financier  our  expedition  was  our  first  duty. 
We  skirmished  round  and  raised  about  six  dollars 
as  our  joint  capital.  Casey  went  on  a  secret  errand 
to  make  inquiries  of  some  well-known  "hobo"  au 
thority  where  to  go,  and  how  to  get  there,  and  then 
undertook  to  personally  conduct  the  tour  into  the 
unknown  land. 

Baggage  did  not  encumber  us.  I  had  thought  of 
taking  my  good  old  pal,  my  Bill,  along  with  us, 
but  did  not  wish  to  expose  him  to  the  dangers, 
which,  no  doubt,  were  lurking  for  us. 

At  the  ferry,  Casey  flew  his  flag  and  read  us 
the  last  orders.  To  save  our  small  capital,  we  were 
to  walk  or  "jump"  freight  trains.  Also,  for  reasons 
of  economy  and  sagacity,  we  were  not  to  indulge  in 
one  solitary  drop  of  anything  intoxicating. 

The  first  hitch  occurred  in  Hoboken.  To  get  a 
173 


My  Mamie  Rose. 

freight  train  was  impossible.  Dempsey  and  I  never 
knew  why  we  were  unable  to  make  connections,  as 
Casey's  plausibility  drove  the  question  from  our 
minds  and  made  us  follow  him  blindly. 

We  walked  from  Hoboken  to  Newark.  It  was  a 
scorching  afternoon,  the  sand  was  hot  and  heavy 
under  foot,  and  our  mouths  became  parched  at  an 
uncomfortable  rate.  A  few  wells  and  pumps  were 
passed  by  us,  but  Casey  would  not  permit  us  to 
slake  our  thirst,  as  "Newark  is  only  a  step  or  so 
further  on,  and  it's  dangerous  to  monkey  wit!: 
them  country  people.  They  got  dogs  and  are  kind 
of  suspicious  of  fellows  like  us,  who  come  from 
New  York." 

Ah,  really  and  truly,  it  would  have  been  the  most 
confiding  and  unsophisticating  nature  that  would  not 
have  been  suspicious  of  us,  no  matter  where  we 
hailed  from.  Three  tough  specimens  of  humanity, 
indeed,  we  were ! 

No  stop  was  made  until  we  reached  the  rail 
road  station  at  Newark.  Quite  a  crowd  was  as 
sembled  to  wait  for  either  an  incoming  or  outgoing 
train,  but  we,  without  paying  the  slightest  attention 
to  the  many  mistrustful  glances  given  in  our  direc 
tion,  raced  for  the  ice-water  tank,  prepared  to  gorge 
ourselves  with  the  cooling  drink. 

Casey  was  the  last  to  have  his  turn  at  the  chained 


A  Pilgrimage  to  Nature. 

tin  cup.  He  started  off  splendidly,  but  paused  after 
his  first  gulp  and  smacked  his  lips  in  a  most  criti 
cal  manner. 

"Taste  anything  funny  in  that  water?" 

We  replied  in  the  negative. 

"There's  something  wrong  with  it,  just  the  same," 
Casey  persisted.  "And  do  you  know,  the  worst 
thing  a  man  can  do  this  time  o'  the  year  is  to  drink 
bad  water." 

"But  we  got  to  drink  something.  We  ain't  go 
ing  to  drink  any  beer,  and  I  hate  to  spend  money  for 
soda  and  ginger-ale  and  stuff  like  that,"  remarked 
Dempsey. 

"That's  true  enough,"  admitted  Casey,  "but,  I'll 
tell  you  what  we'll  do.  The  same  fellow  who  gave 
me  points  on  how  to  get  to  the  strawberries,  also 
told  me  that  the  biggest  glass  of  beer  in  the  country 
was  sold  right  here  in  Newark.  Now,  we  ain't 
going  to  get  full  or  anything  like  that,  but,  being 
as  the  water  ain't  fit  to  drink,  I  guess  we  might 
have  one,  just  one  o'  those  biggest  schooners,  which 
I  never  seen  and  which,  besides  quenching  our 
thirst,  are  surely  worth  looking  at,  the  same  as  any 
curiosities." 

Without  the  aid  of  a  Baedeker,  we  found  our 
way  to  Newark's  most  interesting  spot.  We  en 
tered  the  hospitable  tavern  at  about  seven  o'clock, 
175 


My  Mamie  Rose. 

and,  at  ten  o'clock,  were  still  tarrying  there  admiring 
the  size  and  beauty  of  the  biggest  beers  in  the 
world. 

Regardless  of  the  size  of  the  drink,  the  beer 
alone, — never  a  product  of  malt  and  hops — a  vile 
concoction  of  injurious  chemicals,  is  sufficient  to 
put  the  indulger  far  above  the  most  worrying 
troubles.  Late  that  night,  the  quiet  streets  of  New 
ark  were  profaned  by  three  unsteady  n.usketeers, 
who,  with  song  and  laughter,  were  making  their 
way  to  the  "meadows." 

Only  one  more  resolution  made  and  broken.  It 
was  not  the  first  and  was  not  the  last. 

Out  in  the  "meadows,"  the  train-yard,  where  the 
freight  trains  were  made  up,  we  succeeded,  after 
many  mishaps,  including  Casey's  tumble  from  a 
moving  train  into  a  ditch,  in  catching  a  train  at 
about  midnight.  We  had  only  traveled  about  a 
mile,  when  a  trainman,  stepping  from  car  to  car 
with  lighted  lantern,  saw  us  huddled  between  the 
bumpers. 

"Where  are  you  fellows  going?" 

"Philadelphia,"  came  the  answer  in  sleepy,  drowsy 
tones. 

"You're  on  a  wrong  train.  This  train  goes  to  the 
'branch.' " 

At  the  time  we  did  not  know  that  this  was  only 
176 


A  Pilgrimage  to  Nature. 

a  common  ruse  to  make  "hoboes"  leave  the  train 
and  accepted  it  at  its  face  value. 

"Where  did  he  say  we  were  going?"  asked  Casey. 

"To  the  'branch,'  wherever  that  may  be,"  I  an 
swered. 

"I  guess  we  better  get  off,  then.  This  train  ain't 
going  to  Philadelphia,"  suggested  Dempsey. 

"What  we'll  get  off  for?  This  train  goes  some 
where,  don't  it?  And  it  don't  make  much  differ 
ence  where  it  goes  to,  as  long  as  it  goes  somewhere 
into  the  country  and  away  from  New  York,"  said 
Casey,  with  the  evident  intention  of  ending  further 
argument. 

The  heavy,  damp  night  air  and  the  drink  partaken 
by  us  lulled  us  into  deep  slumber,  forgetful  of  our 
precarious  attitude.  We  had  journeyed  for  hours 
without  waking  and  were  not  aroused  until  the  cold 
ness  in  our  limbs  became  actually  painful.  Without 
speaking  a  word  and  merely  staring  at  each  other 
we  jolted  on  and  on  into  the  unknown,  and  the 
dawning  morning. 

Suddenly  a  brilliant  spectacle  caught  our  eyes. 
Coming  out  from  wooded  land,  the  train  sped  along 
a  level  stretch  and  we  fed  our  looks  on  the  Fata 
Morgana  of  a  large  city.  The  size,  brilliancy  of 
illumination  and  distance  from  New  York  left  no 
doubt  in  our  minds  that  we  were  not  far  from 
177 


My  Mamie  Rose. 

Philadelphia,  and  had  we  known  how  to  pray,  we 
would  surely  have  done  so.  I  have  never  regretted 
the  experience,  still  have  no  wild  desire  to  repeat 
it.  There  are  more  easily  obtainable  joys  in  life 
than  the  riding  on  the  bumpers  of  a  freight  train 
on  a  chilly  May  morning. 

It  was  not  long  before  we  were  slinking  along 
Market  street  in  Philadelphia.  After  fortifying 
ourselves  against  the  bad  consequences  of  our  be 
numbing  voyage  by  sampling  some  "speak-easy" 
whiskey,  we  visited  "Dirty  Mag's"  famous  all- 
night  restaurant  on  Sixth  street  and  feasted  on 
steak-pie  and  coffee,  with  crullers  included.  The 
bill  amounted  to  ten  cents. 

We  were  so  tired  out  by  our  traveling  that  it 
was  out  of  the  question  to  continue  our  journey. 
Down  on  Calomel  street  we  found  a  resting-place 
for  our  weary  and  frozen  bones  at  fifteen  cents 
per  couch.  It  was  almost  noon  before  we  woke 
from  our  sleep  and  held  a  conference.  At  its  ter 
mination  we  hied  ourselves  to  the  nearby  grocery 
store  and  spent  almost  the  entire  remainder  of  our 
depleted  treasury  in  buying  provisions  for  our  trip 
into  the  wilds  of  Pennsylvania.  After  that,  with  a 
last  parting  drink,  we  turned  our  backs  on  Phila 
delphia  and  set  boldly  out  to  win  our  fortunes. 

Just  as  the  suburbs  had  been  reached  by  us  w« 
178 


A  Pilgrimage  to  Nature. 

were  reminded  by  our  stomachs  that  we  had  for 
gotten  to  breakfast.  An  inviting  tree  stood  nearby, 
a  brook,  as  clear  as  crystal,  was  rippling  past  our 
feet,  and  the  place  seemed  to  be  made  for  a  picnic 
ground.  The  enjoyment  of  the  meal  was  marred  by 
the  thought  that  now  we  would  have  no  lunch  or 
dinner. 

"What's  the  use  of  worrying  about  that  now? 
Besides,  we  won't  have  to  carry  so  much,"  was 
Casey's  way  of  consoling  us. 

We  rose  and  began  our  tramp  in  earnest.  For 
hours  we  walked,  giving  little  attention  to  the  things 
about  us  and  only  holding  desultory  conversation. 
Not  one  of  us  knew  the  route  to  the  "strawberry 
country,"  and  we  were  often  obliged  to  ask  people 
whom  we  met  for  directions.  We  had  little  luck 
in  this.  Most  of  the  people  addressed  by  us  would 
quickly  button  their  coats  and  hurry  on  without 
heeding  us.  Others  would  barely  stop  and  throw  us 
such  a  small  scrap  of  information  that,  instead  of 
enlightening  us,  they  only  bewildered  us  the  more. 

At  last,  Casey  got  tired  of  this  way  of  securing 
information  and  burst  upon  us  with  his  latest  and 
brightest  inspiration. 

"It's  no  use  of  asking  any  o'  these  men.  Most  o' 
them  are  hayseeds  and  been  to  New  York  and  have 
been  buncoed.  They  can  sec  in  a  minute  that  we're 
179 


My  Mamie  Rose. 

from  New  York  and  ain't  going  to  take  no  chances 
witH  us.  It's  different  with  women.  They're  al 
ways  nice  and  gentle  and,  especially,  when  they 
get  spoken  to  the  way  I  know  how  to  talk  to  them. 
Leave  this  to  me.  Don't  ask  any  more  men.  Wait 
till  we  meet  'some  women,  and  then  I'll  ask  them, 
and  then  you'll  be  surprised  in  the  difference.** 

Casey,  who  had  given  voice  to  this  speech  with 
properly  inflated  chest,  proved  himself  to  be  a  true 
prophet.  We  found  there  -was  a  difference  in  the 
way  in  which  men  and  women  received  our  ap 
proach. 

Before  long,  we  saw  two  women  with  baskets 
coming  our  way. 

"Now,  you  fellows  want  to  keep  a  little  behind, 
and  watch  me  how  I  do  this,"  was  Casey's  final 
instruction. 

Giving  his  clothes  a  quick  brushing  with  his  hands 
and  setting  his  hat  jauntily  over  his  ear,  Casey  went 
toward  his  fate  with  a  grace  all  his  own. 

Dempsey  and  I  could  not  hear  the  first  passage 
of  words,  but  it  was  hardly  necessary,  as  the  effects 
of  it  were  immediately  visible. 

One  woman  proceeded  to  pummel  Casey  with  her 
umbrella,  while  the  other  was  trying  to  fit  her  mar 
ket-basket  on  his  head.  When  they  saw  Dempsey 
and  me  come  running  to  the  rescue,  they  left  Casey 
i  So 


A  Pilgrimage  to  Nature. 

and  took  it  on  a  run  across  the  fields,  but  they  took 
good  care  to  shout  back  to  us  that  they  would  have 
the  sheriff  or  constable  after  us. 

"For  heaven's  sake,  what  did  you  say  to  those 
women  ?"  I  asked  Casey,  after  I  had  pulled  the  bas 
ket  from  his  head. 

"What  did  I  say  to  them?  They  ain't  civilized, 
and  it  don't  make  no  difference  what  a  fellow  says 
to  them  kind  o'  people.  I  spoke  to  them  like  a  regu 
lar  dude.  This  is  what  I  said:  'Ain't  this  a  fine 
morning,  girls.  We're  strangers  here  and  didn't 
like  this  country  very  much  until  it  was  our  good 
fortune  to  see  you,  who  are  sweeter  than  any  sugar, 
and  now  we'd  like  to  stay  here  if  you  will  tell  us 
the  road  to  where  the  strawberries  grow  and  where 
there  are  as  many  girls  as  beautiful  as  yourselves!' 
And  the  minute  I  said  that  they  soaked  me." 

We  consoled  Casey  and  resumed  our  traru* 

It  was  now  late  in  the  afternoon  and  I  detf .  "-tf^rf 
that  we  should  know  something  about  our  wheii.1- 
abouts.  1  stopped  the  very  next  man  we  met  in 
such  a  way  that  he  could  not  get  away  from  us. 

After  assuring  him  that  we  had  no  intention  of 
robbing  him,  I  insisted  on  getting  correct  informa 
tion. 

Can  you  imagine  our  feelings  when  he  told  us  that 
we  had  spent  our  time  and  energy  in  describing 


My  Mamie  Rose. 

circles  around  Philadelphia,  without  getting  away 
from  it? 

Dempsey  and  Casey  made  no  attempt  to  hide  their 
chagrin.  The  blow  was  too  crushing.  I,  also,  felt 
fearfully  discouraged,  but  did  not  want  to  give  in. 

"There  is  no  use  in  going  back.  We're  here  now, 
and  must  go  on.  If  we  go  back  to  Philadelphia,  we 
might  as  well  go  back  to  New  York.  We're  in 
the  country  now,  and  we  might  as  well  stay  here, 
I  don't  care  what  you  fellows  do,  I'm  going  to  go 
ahead." 

The  last  sentence  was  a  fearful  bluff.  Had  Demp 
sey  and  Casey  decided  to  return  to  New  York,  I 
would  have  joined  them  on  the  spot.  Fortunately, 
they  adopted  my  way  of  looking  at  it,  and  we  once 
more  pursued  our  sorry  pilgrimage. 

Now,  we  were  sure  of  penetrating  right  into  the 
heart  of  the  country  and  evidences  of  it  were  not 
lacking.  Suburban  villas  grew  fewer  and  fewer 
and  we  had  to  walk  for  a  considerable  distance 
before  we  passed  another  farmhouse.  With  our 
inborn  stubbornness  we  kept  plodding  on,  until 
our  legs  almost  refused  to  obey. 

It  was  the  hour  in  which  evening  unwillingly 
yields  supremacy  to  night.  We  felt  it,  as  was  proven 
by  Casey  in  answer  to  Dempsey's  question  in  re 
gard  to  the  time. 


A  Pilgrimage  to  Nature. 

"Well,  when  it  looks  like  this  they  always  begin 
to  light  up  in  Callahan's,  and  that's  about  seven 
o'clock." 

Again  we  were  silent  and  tramped  and  tramped. 
Dempsey  was  the  next  to  speak. 

"Say,  fellows,  I  ain't  seen  anj  strawberries  yet. 
And  even  if  we  were  to  see  any  now,  we  couldn't 
go  to  work  at  them  this  evening,  it  being  so  late  now, 
and  I  think  the  best  thing  we  csa\  do  is  to  sit  down 
some  place  and  take  a  rest." 

Only  a  few  more  steps  and  we  saw  a  spot,  which 
by  you,  would  have  been  called  a  dell.  We  called 
it  nothing,  just  saw  the  soft  grass  and,  with  one 
accord,  sank  down  on  it. 

The  tone  of  evening  now  rang  unmistakably 
clear.  Evening  and  its  partner,  the  gloaming,  were 
at  the  last  and  best  moment  of  their  supremacy. 
Too  short,  by  far,  are  evenings  in  the  country, 
those  short  brief  hours  of  nature's  neutral  state, 
before  retiring  to  its  well-earned  rest.  But  that  I 
only  feel  now,  and  did  not  then. 

Remember!  this  was  my  first  night  in  God's 
country.  Like  thousands  of  others  who  live  and 
die  in  the  southeast  corner  of  Manhattan — along 
the  Bowery — I  had  never  had  a  sight  of  nature. 
I  could  not  have  told  a  daisy  from  a  rose ;  or  a  crow 
from  a  robin.  All  that  I  write  here  are  the  iin- 
183 


My  Mamie  Rose. 

pressions  that  linger  in  my  mind  of  this,  my  first 
night  with  nature. 

It  was  one  grand  moment  in  our  lives,  yet  we 
did  not  feel  it.  Hold,  I  am  wrong !  We  did  feel  it, 
perhaps  subconsciously,  but  feel  it  we  did.  Our 
kind  is  not  given  to  much  talking  while  doing  any 
thing  of  import.  Then  our  energies  are  in  our  task, 
no  matter  how  dirty  that  may  be.  As  soon  as  we 
rest,  we  change,  and  the  silent  drudge  becomes  a 
veritable  magpie.  We  three  were  resting  as,  like 
three  daisies  in  the  wilderness,  we  sat  in  our  dell, 
but  there  was  something  all  about  and  around  us 
that  stopped  our  flow  of  talk  from  loosening  itself. 

We  sat  and  stared,  and  the  most  insignificant 
changes  in  the  tranquil  scene  before  us  left  their 
unrecognized,  yet  deep  impressions  on  us.  And  look 
ing  back  through  all  the  years  passed  since  then, 
I  see  it  all  still  before  me,  though  I  cannot  attempt 
to  picture  it  to  you. 

From  where  we  sat  it  looked  before  us  like  the 
setting  for  a  glorious  play.  On  both  sides,  small 
sketches  of  woodland  interjected  just  far  enough  to 
serve  as  the  wings  on  the  stage.  Back  of  it,  there 
was  a  grand,  majestic  last  drop,  a  range  of  hills, 
running  unbrokenly  from  where  to  where  we  could 
see.  The  cast,  the  actors  of  the  play  were  supplied 
by  all  the  many  living  things  about  us  and,  above 

184 


A  Pilgrimage  to  Nature. 

it  all,  like  the  last  curtain,  hung  the  forerunners  of 
the  coming  night. 

It  was  no  tumultuous  melodrama,  no  rollicking 
farce,  it  was  a  pastoral  play  so  successful,  so  wisely 
composed  and  staged  that  from  its  first  night  it  has 
been  enacted  every  night  through  all  the  ages.  No 
wonder  that  with  so  many  rehearsals  the  scene,  as 
we  saw  it,  was  played  with  perfection. 

Out  from  a  loophole  in  the  sky,  a  bird  came  fly 
ing  toward  us  with  unfaltering  swing.  Night  after 
night  it  had  flown  the  same  course,  night  after  night 
it  had  the  same  role,  that  of  bringing  their  share 
to  the  young  striplings  in  the  nest  above  our  heads. 
Along  the  road  came  a  creaking,  lumbering  farm- 
wagon.  The  farmer  looked  at  us  with  suspicion, 
still,  gave  us  a  "good  evening,  boys."  I  do  not 
know  if  we  returned  his  greeting  or  not. 

It  was  quiet,  so  quiet,  that  the  many  little  noises, 
made  by  unseen  beings,  pealed  like  tornadoes  of 
sound.  The  snatch  of  laughter,  coming  from  the 
tree-encircled  farm-house  behind  us,  was  as  the 
laughter  of  a  multitude;  the  chirrup  of  that  home 
ward  bound  bird  was  as  a  lofty,  airy  chorus ;  the 
croaking  of  the  frog  was  as  a  grunting  wail  from 
many,  many,  who  never  get  above  the  very  ground. 

While  we  had  sat  staring  holes  into  the  air  before 
us,  evening  had  flown,  and  night,  a  gallant  victor, 

i  as 


My  Mamie  Rose. 

had  unrolled  the  standard  of  the  stars.  I  know  I 
cannot  tell  you  my  impressions,  but  even  had  I  the 
gift  and  genius  of  a  hundred  of  our  greatest  writ 
ers,  I  could  not  convey  to  you  what  a  picture  that 
night,  my  first  night  in  God's  country,  left  with  me. 
It  seemed  to  me  that  all  and  everything,  before  be 
coming  wrapped  in  slumber,  gave  one  praise-offer 
ing  to  Above.  The  corn  of  the  field  and  the  poo. 
lowly  flower  by  the  roadside  and  even  the  tiny  blade 
of  grass,  they  all  were  straightened  by  one  last, 
upward  tremor  before  relaxing  to  their  drooping 
doze.  The  birds  of  the  air  and  the  beasts  of  the 
ground,  all  sounded  their  evening  song.  With  some 
it  was  a  thrill  of  sweetest  divine  melody,  with 
others  it  was  but  a  grunt,  but  it  all  seemed  like  a 
thanksgiving  for  having  lived  and  worked  a  day 
made  by  the  Creator  of  all. 

And  from  beneath  all  this,  the  silent  attitude  of 
prayer  and  the  intoned  evening  hymn  of  creatures 
rose  onward,  upward,  like  an  anthem  to  the  sky, 
where  brilliant  orbs  and  shining,  milky  veils  were 
interwoven  in  a  web  of  glory,  and  peeping  over  the 
tops  of  hours  into  the  birthing  cradle  of  another 
day.  It  is  a  witching  hour,  this  hour,  when  stars 
and  nature  in  unison  sing  their  evening  song. 

Where  nature  is  grandest,  man  most  likes  to  pro 
fane  it 

1 96 


A  Pilgrimage  to  Nature. 

The  sublime,  sweet  spell  held  us  enthralled.  Not 
a  word  had  been  spoken  by  us.  How  long  we  had 
sat  there  we  did  not  know.  How  much  longer 
we  would  have  sat  there  is  a  matter  of  unprofitable 
conjecture.  As  if  turned  loose  from  the  regions 
of  the  arch-fiend,  with  howling  screech,  with  snort 
ing,  rumbling,  rattling,  a  train,  looking  like  a  string 
of  toy-cars  in  the  distance,  clattered  along  the  range 
of  hills,  the  last  drop  of  our  scene.  Spitting  fire 
before  it,  leaving  white  streamers  behind  it,  the  iron 
disrespecter  of  nature's  sanctity  rushed  into  the  very 
heart  of  the  hills  and  took  the  haze  of  idealism  with 
it. 

The  spell  was  broken,  and  we  were  not  long  in 
getting  back  to  terra  firma. 

"Say,"  remarked  Casey  very  pensively,  "ain't  it 
very  quiet  here?" 

"Well,  I  should  say  so,"  hastened  Dempsey  to 
corroborate  him.  "It's  so  quiet  you  couldn't  sleep 
here  if  you  wanted  to.  This  ain't  no  place  for  us. 
Let's  go." 

We  started  ahead  and  tumbled  along  the  country 
road.  All  directions,  as  to  our  route,  were,  for  the 
present,  forgotten.  We  only  had  one  purpose  now, 
to  get  away  from  the  haunting  quiet  With  every 
step  our  nerves  became  more  unstrung.  A  rabbit 
scooted  across  the  road  and  made  us  grasp  each 
187 


My  Mamie  Rose. 

other's  arms.  The  faint  rustle  of  the  leaves  sent 
shivers  down  our  backs. 

Out  in  the  open,  we  felt  the  hazy,  vapory  night 
air  enshroud  us,  which  showed  every  object  in 
ghost-like  mold.  A  dog  barked  far  away,  then  it 
howled,  and  I  can  swear  to  it,  we  trembled. 

It  was  not  physical  fear.  It  was  the  weirdness  of 
the  unaccustomed  that  played  havoc  with  our  rea 
soning  powers.  Some  may  doubt  all  this  and  men 
tion  as  proof  the  "hoboing"  tramps,  who  spend  their 
most  pleasing  and  profitable  period  of  vagrancy  in 
their  country.  I  am  not  prepared  to  discuss  this  at 
all,  but  am  quite  sure  that  every  tramp,  at  the  begin 
ning  of  his  career  as  such,  was  similarly  impressed 
on  his  first  night  in  the  country,  provided  he  had 
not  found  shelter  in  a  barn  or  haystack  or  had  not 
been  born  and  lived  in  the  country  before. 

We,  we  were  city  bred  to  the  bone,  and  noise  was 
essential  to  us  as  ozone  is  to  the  country  lad.  He 
cannot  sleep  with  noise, — we  could  not  sleep  without 
it. 

Our  musings — we  had  not  spoken  for  a  long  time 
— were  interrupted  by  Dempsey,  who  had  fallen 
over  a  rail,  which  he  had  not  noticed  in  the  shadowy 
vsdfkness.  Yes,  it  was  a  full-fledged  railroad  track 
and,  for  some  obscure  reason,  it  seemed  to  possess  a 
great  deal  of  fascination  for  us.  We  were  appar- 
188 


A  Pilgrimage  to  Nature. 

ently  not  able  to  get  away  from  it.  We  stood  and 
looked  at  it  as  if  we  had  never  seen  a  railroad  track 
before. 

This  lasted  until  the  ever-ready  Casey  interpreted 
our  feelings. 

"I  wonder  if  this  is  the  Pennsylvania  railroad  ?" 
That  started  a  chorus  of  "wonders." 
"I   wonder   which   end   of  this   runs   into   New 
York ;"  "I  wonder  how  far  we  are  from  New  York ;" 
"I  wonder  if  we  could  get  to  New  York  from  here ;" 
"I  wonder  how  long  it  takes  to  get  to  New  York 
from  here;"  "I  wonder  if  there  is  a  station  near 
here." 

How  it  happened,  whether  any  one  proposed  it,  or 
how  we  got  there  I  do  not  know,  but  I  do  know  that, 
quite  unexpectedly,  we  found  ourselves  at  a  little 
wayside  station,  with  a  lot  of  milk  cans  on  its  plat 
form.  There  is  no  mistaking  the  fact  that  we  were 
entirely  unbalanced  mentally,  and  it  was  a  good 
thing  for  the  crew  of  the  freight  train,  which  rolled 
in  to  unload  and  load  milk  cans,  that  they  were  an 
easy-going  crowd  of  men.  We  made  no  pretense  of 
hiding  ourselves,  but  climbed  boldly  on  to  the  cars 
and  would  have  committed  murder  had  they  at 
tempted  to  put  us  off.  The  spectre  of  the  stillness 
had  taken  possession  of  our  brains,  and  we  wanted 
to  flee  from  it  as  from  a  plague. 
189 


My  Mamie  Rose. 

Again  the  long,  cold  journey,  and,  then,  at  last,  a 
great  'white  sheen  of  shining  lustre  in  the  heavens 
told  us  that  we  were  home  once  more  to  the  city  of 
our  birth,  of  which  we  were  so  proud. 

But  could  she  be  proud  of  us? 

The  rest  of  the  night,  or  rather  the  beginning  of 
the  day,  was  spent  in  chairs  in  Callahan's  back-room, 
which  seemed  like  paradise  to  us  after  our  "fierce" 
experience  in  the  country.  After  a  nap,  I  went  to 
look  for  my  Bill,  who  greeted  me  as  if  I  had  left  him 
alone  as  long  as  I  did  on  our  previous  separation, 
and  then  again  settled  down  to  grace  Callahan's  dive 
with  my  presence. 

In  a  day  our  country  trip  was  forgotten,  and  I 
felt  quite  resigned  at  taking  up  my  career  where  I 
had  dropped  it.  There  was  little  hope  of  things 
in  divedom  brightening  up  for  some  time  to  come 
and  I  was  perfectly  willing  to  resume  playing  the 
gentleman  of  leisure,  who  makes  his  fluctuating  liv 
ing  at  the  expense  of  his  fellow  men. 

But  the  days  in  the  old  life  were  numbered.  Only 
a  short  space  of  time  more,  and  I  was  to  be  taken 
from  the  cesspool  by  one  whom  God  must  have  sent 
solely  for  this  end.  Why  this  was  and  why  I  was 
chosen,  neither  you  or  I  can  answer,  but  it  is 
enough  for  me  to  know  that,  even  were  every  miracle 
of  old  found  to  be  a  fraud  or  sacrilege,  the  exist- 
'190 


A  Pilgrimage  to  Nature. 

ence  of  one  great,  mighty,  living  God  would  be 
proven  to  me  beyond  the  slimmest  shadow  of  doubt 
by  the  miracle  he  performed  on  me  by  His  sweetest 
prophet. 

Lord  my  master,  here  I  thank  Thee,  not  only  for 
having  permitted  me  to  live  the  life  of  purity  and 
cleanliness,  but  also  for  having  had  me  come  from 
out  and  through  the  life  of  the  most  miserable  and 
sinful.  Mysterious  are  Your  ways  and  Your  pur 
poses  are  not  for  us  to  know,  but  I  have  suffered, 
learned  and  prayed,  and  I  know  You  will  not  let  it 
be  without  avail.  And  if  naught  else  I  can  do,  give 
that  for  her  sake,  I  shall  always  live  in  the  way  she 
wanted  me  to  live  and  that  was  in  Your  way,  God. 


THE 

FRONTIER  OF  THE  NEWER  LIFE 


CHAPTER  XII. 

THE    FRONTIER    OF    THE    NEWER    LIFE. 

RETURNED  to  New  York  from  my  Philadelphia 
trip,  I  immediately  fell  back  into  my  old  ways,  which 
meant  for  the  time  being  I  established  myself  again 
as  an  ornament  in  and  in  front  of  Mike  Calla- 
han's  dive  in  Chatham  Square.  Things  in  our  line 
of  business  were  growing  quieter  every  day  and  no 
one  seemed  to  know  when  this  drought  in  the  former 
land  of  plenty  would  cease. 

Our  temporary  occupation  during  this  lull  was  to 
"lay  for"  easy  things  and  suckers.  But  even  they 
seemed  to  grow  fewer  and,  at  last,  we  were  reduced 
to  a  state  of  desperation.  Then,  when  hunger  and 
an  unquenchable  thirst  were  less  and  less  satisfied, 
some  of  the  gang  overcame  their  inborn  cowardice 
and  turned  "crooked."  One,  two  and  three  would 
go  on  secret  expeditions  and  return  either  with 
money  or  easily  disposable  goods,  or  would  not  re 
turn  at  all,  at  least,  not  for  a  long  time*  The  gang 
could  well  afford  to  stand  these  occasional  va- 
'95 


My  Mamie  Rose. 

cancies  in  the  membership,  as  more  than  fifty  con 
stituted  it  and  more  and  more  were  constantly  join 
ing  it. 

I  am  not  making  an  untruthful  statement  and  do 
not  wish  to  tax  your  belief  unduly  when  I  tell  you 
that  I  did  not  take  active  part  in  these  "crooked" 
doings.  My  list  of  misdeeds  is  so  full  that  one  more 
or  less  would  make  but  small  difference  therein,  and 
I  have  no  cause  to  tell  you  a  lie. 

Had  it  been  necessary  for  me  to  turn  "crooked" 
I  would  have  surely  done  so,  but  it  was  not  neces 
sary. 

I  was  the  recognized  leader  of  our  gang,  and  lead 
ers  of  or  in  anything  always  have  certain  preroga 
tives.  Out  of  every  expedition  I  received  a  small 
share.  I  was  "staked"  is  the  proper  expression.  The 
return  I  made  for  the  "stake"  was  small  enough. 

In  case  one  or  more  of  the  men  were  locked  up 
in  the  city  prison,  I,  not  officially  known  to  the 
police,  had  to  visit  them  and  act  as  go-between  to 
lawyers  and  their  "outside"  friends.  Were  any  bar 
room  growls  between  one  of  the  men  and  outsiders 
started  I  had  to  throw  myself — regardless  of  the 
merits  of  the  fight — into  the  mixup  to  end  it  quickly 
in  favor  of  my  brother  in  loaferdom 

Not  having  to  go  on  any  of  the  mentioned  expe 
ditions,  I  had  all  my  time  to  myself  and  hardly  ever 
196 


The  Frontier  of  the  Newer  Life. 

left  Callahan's.  In  truth,  I  was  in  a  fair  way  of 
becoming  one  of  the  monarchs  of  the  Bowery,  hav 
ing,  so  far,  been  only  one  of  the  knight  errants  of 
that  locality.  It  was  the  beginning  of  Summer,  and 
excepting  when  business  of  a  liquid  or  financial 
hature  called  me  inside,  I  could  have  always  been 
seen  on  my  keg  at  the  curb,  flanked  and  surrounded 
by  a  galaxy,  whose  very  faces  made  men,  respecta 
ble  men,  clasp  their  hands  over  their  watches  and 
pocketbooks. 

I  remember,  how  once  a  "sport"  hung  up  a  prize 
for  the  "homeliest  mug"  in  Callahan's,  and  a  hur 
ried  ballot  awarded  me  the  prize.  However,  there 
were  extenuating  circumstances,  which  I  do  not 
care  to  recite,  the  whole  matter  being  one  not  very 
interesting  to  me. 

Hanging  around  the  dives  all  day  we  "regulars" 
often  found  the  time  hang  heavy  on  our  hands.  To 
help  us  over  these  periods  of  ennui  we  invented  a 
gentle  form  of  sport.  The  sidewalk  was  very  wide, 
the  traffic  was  heavy,  the  police,  for  reasons  of 
policy,  absolutely  blind  to  our  doings,  what  more 
did  we  need?  From  our  kegs  we  looked,  like  the 
gallery  of  the  play,  at  the  passing  show,  and  fre 
quently  became  so  interested  in  the  ever-playing 
drama  that  we  took  part  in  it  ourselves. 

Is  there  more  manly,  noble  sport  than  for  the 

IQ7 


My  Mamie  Rose. 

many,  with  stamping  horses  and  yelping,  snarling 
dogs,  to  throw  themselves  on  to  the  death-scared, 
fright-unwitted  fox  and  tear  him  to  his  end,  after 
having  him  partly  finished  by  hoof  beat  and  dog 
bite  ?  Of  course  not.  Were  it  unmanly,  unwomanly, 
ignoble  sport,  our  "better,  upper"  classes,  our  social 
leaders,  would  not  enjoy  it  We,  of  Chatham 
Square,  aped  our  models  in  the  higher  circles,  and, 
not  having  a  fox  in  our  collection  of  rare  animals, 
chose  the  passing  pedestrians  as  the  objects  of  our 
sport 

Our  imitation  of  our  "betters"  was  fairly  cor 
rect.  If  only  one  or  two  were  on  the  kegs  pas 
sers-by  would  not  be  molested ;  but  when  the  gang 
was  there  in  force,  then  woe  to  the  unoffending 
man  or  woman,  whose  way  led  by  us. 

To  be  exact,  our  "sport"  consisted  of  insults  of 
various  kinds  to  pedestrians.  Old  people — and 
especially  old  women — received  the  most  of  our 
playful  attention.  They  were  our  favorite  victims, 
as  they  were  less  likely  to  resent  our  brutishness. 
It  brings  a  flush  to  my  face  when  I  think  of  our 
beastly  cowardice.  There  is  more  manliness  in 
one  mongrel  cur  than  there  was  in  that  whole  gang 
of  ours ! 

And  in  that  sport  I  was  the  acknowledged  leader. 

There  were  many  variations  to  our  game.     We 


The  Frontier  of  the  Newer  Life. 

would  quickly  put  our  feet  between  those  of  men 
and  women  passing  by,  would  "trip  them  up" 
and  send  them  sprawling  to  the  pavement;  we 
would  throw  rotten  fruit  and  decayed  vegetables  at 
them;  would  deliberately  run  into  them  and  upset 
their  balance  and,  besides  all  this,  would  shower 
avalanches  of  filthy  expressions  on  them.  Why 
didn't  they  resent  it?  Because  people  who  were 
obliged  to  pass  there  did  not  do  it  from  choice,  but 
because  they  were  obliged  to  do  so,  and  knew  the 
calibre  of  our  tribe.  They  knew  that,  like  the 
rooster  taken  away  from  his  dung-heap,  singly  and 
on  different  ground  from  our  own,  we  were  crawl 
ing,  cowardly  caricatures  of  men,  and  only  brave 
when  we  could  throw  ourselves  on  One  in  mass. 

Yet,  -withal,  even  loafers  can  be  saved  from  their 
mockery  of  an  existence,  but  different  means  from 
the  stereotyped  ones  of  the  present  day  must  be 
employed.  Where  is  the  harvest  of  the  many  mill 
ions  sown  on  the  East  Side?  The  time,  the  day, 
the  hour  is  ripe  for  a  Messiah  to  the  slums  who  will 
have  much  piety,  more  manhood  and,  most  of  all, 
common  sense.  Bring  less  talk  and  more  muscle; 
less  hymns  and  more  work,  and  there  will  be  an 
echo  to  your  labor  in  every  lane  and  alley. 

My  loaferish  career  ran  along  so  evenly  that  I 
could  not  imagine  such  a  thing  as  a  break  in  it. 


My  Mamie  Rose. 

Without  a  moment's  warning,  in  the  most  ordinary 
way,  the  message  from  across  the  frontier  of  de 
cency  was  brought  to  me  by  one  whom  I  cannot 
call  otherwise  than  one  of  God's  own  angels. 

It  had  been  a  most  quiet  day.  In  the  early  fore 
noon  "Skinny"  McCarthy,  one  of  my  intimate  pals, 
had  informed  me  that  "something  would  be  doing" 
that  day.  I  gave  him  my  rogue's  blessing  and 
sped  him  on  his  way. 

"Skinny"  belonged  to  the  class  of  meanest  graft 
ers.  His  graft  consisted  in  walking  miles  and  miles 
looking  for  trucks  and  wagons  left  temporarily 
without  the  driver's  protection.  To  whip  something 
from  the  vehicle  and  then  to  accelerate  his  steps,  at 
the  same  time  holding  the  stolen  article  before  him, 
was  only  a  moment's  effort.  Naturally,  the  pro 
ceeds  of  "Skinny's"  expeditions  were  never  very 
large,  but  he  kept  at  it  so  constantly  and  spent 
his  few  dollars  so  quickly  that  he  was  a  rather 
handy  acquaintance  for  me. 

It  was  about  two  o'clock  in  the  afternoon  of  June 
the  second  when  "Skinny"  returned  to  Callahan's 
and,  pulling  me  aside,  whispered  that  he  had  done 
better  than  usual.  I  praised  him  for  his  zeal  and 
luck,  encouraged  him  to  greater  efforts,  and  then 
suggested  that  our  thirst  should  find  an  immediate 
end.  Forthwith,  at  a  signal  from  me,  several  other 

200 


The  Frontier  of  the  Newer  Life. 

birds  of  our  feather  joined  us  and  we  celebrated 
"Skinny V  safe  and  welcome  return  in  the  custom 
ary  way. 

The  only  serious  fault  I  had  to  find  with  "Skinny" 
McCarthy  was  that  he  could  not  stand  very  much 
drink.  Just  when  the  others  would  begin  to  feel 
the  mellowing  influences  of  the  drink  "Skinny"  was 
always  so  intoxicated  as  to  lose  all  control  over  his 
speech  and  actions.  He  was  a  bit  of  a  hero-wor 
shipper,  and  I — mind  you,  I — was  his  hero.  As 
soon  as  the  fumes  of  the  stuff  consumed  would  be 
fuddle  his  brains  he  would  declare  with  howling, 
roaring  emphasis  that  he  was  a  thief  and  proud  of 
it,  that  he  didn't  care  for  what  anybody  thought  of 
him  as  long  as  I  was  his  friend,  and  that  he  was 
always  willing  to  share  with  me,  because  he  knew 
that  I  would  stick  to  him  if  he  should  happen  to 
get  into  "stir." 

All  this  was  very  flattering  to  me  and  sounded 
sweet  to  my  ears,  yet,  being  of  limitless  capacity,  I 
never  found  myself  sufficiently  drunk  to  enjoy  this 
too  public  endorsement. 

On  this  occasion — June  the  second — "Skinny," 
elated  over  his  markedly  successful  expedition, 
bought  drinks  so  fast  that,  in  a  little  over  an  hour, 
he  was  near  a  state  of  coma.  I,  as  leader  of  the 
gang,  was  more  or  less  responsible  for  the  individual 


My  Mamie  Rose. 

safety  of  my  fellows,  and,  not  caring  to  see 
"Skinny"  utterly  helpless  so  early  in  the  afternoon, 
ordered  a  cessation  of  drinking  and  proposed  an 
adjournment  to  the  kegs  at  the  curb,  hoping  the 
air  would  partly  revive  my  ailing  follower. 

My  suggestion  was  accepted,  and  I  led  th«  way 
to  the  sidewalk,  closely  followed  by  "Skinny." 

Just  as  I  had  reached  the  curb  and  was  about  to 
seat  myself  on  my  keg  I  heard  a  slight  commotion, 
followed  by  a  muffled  scream,  behind  me.  Leisurely 
turning  I  saw  what  I  had  expected  to  see. 

It  was  one  of  our  customary  frolics.  "Skinny*' 
McCarthy  had  wilfully  and  fiercely  collided  with  a 
frail  young  girl.  Although  I  could  not  see  her 
face,  her  figure  and  general  appearance  denoted 
youth.  But  what  did  youth,  age,  sex  or  size  matter 
to  us? 

They  all  stood  about  her  in  a  circle,  grinning 
and  leering  at  her.  I,  too,  meant  to  join  in  the  gen 
eral  enjoyment.  But  before  my  facial  muscles  had 
time  to  shapen  themselves  into  a  brutish  laugh  the 
girl  wheeled  around,  looked  at  McCarthy,  at  me,  at 
all  of  us  and,  quite  distinctly  could  I  read  there  the 
sentence:  "And  you  are  MEN!" 

Possibly  there  was  a  psychic  or  physical  reason 
for  it,  but  whatever  it  was  I  could  almost  feel  when 
her  look  fell  on  me  the  bodily  sensation  of  some- 

202 


The  Frontier  of  the  Newer  Life. 

thing  snapping  or  becoming  released  within  me. 
It  was  as  if  a  spring,  holding  back  a  certain  force, 
had  been  suddenly  freed  from  its  catch  and  had, 
catapult-like,  sent  a  new  power  into  action. 

I  had  neither  the  inclination  or  Intelligence  to 
explain  it  all  to  myself.  Instead,  I  rushed  into  th* 
crowd,  tore  through  it,  until  I  stood  in  front  of  Mc 
Carthy,  who,  without  a  word  from  me,  received  a 
blow  from  me  under  his  ear,  felling  him  to  the 
ground. 

This  decisive  and  unexpected  action  on  my  part 
amazed  the  members  of  the  gang  so  that  they  stood 
motionless  for  several  seconds  before  paying  any 
attention  to  McCarthy,  who  was  lying  motionless 
on  the  sidewalk.  They  did  not  know  what  to  make 
of  it.  Was  I  more  drunk  than  they  had  judged  me 
to  be?  Was  there  a  private  grudge  between  Mc 
Carthy  and  myself? 

That  I  had  acted  solely  to  save  the  young  lady 
from  further  insult  would  have  been — had  they 
surmised  it — as  inexplicable  to  them  as  it  was  to  me. 

I  took  no  heed  of  their  wondering  attitude,  but,  in 
gruff  tones,  asked  the  young  lady  to  come  with  me. 
She  was  completely  bewildered  and  followed  me 
mechanically. 

Poor  "Skinny"  in  his  stunned  condition  was  still 
o»  *he  ground,  and  this,  as  always,  furnished  an  in- 
303 


My  Mamie  Rose. 

teresting  spectacle  to  the  many  idle  gapers,  who  had 
joined  the  rank  of  spectators.  I,  holding  the  girl 
by  her  arm,  made  my  way  through  them  without 
any  trouble  and  then  addressed  my  companion. 

"Say,  sis,  I  guess  I  better  walk  a  block  or  two 
with  you,  because  I  think  it's  better.  That  push 
there  won't  do  you  nothing,  but  they're  all  drunk 
and  might  get  fresh  to  you  again." 

Surely,  it  was  not  a  very  cavalierly  speech,  but, 
somehow,  it  was  understood  and  remembered. 
Often  in  the  future,  we — she  and  I — had  our  laugh 
at  this  offer  of  my  protectorate,  which  was  word 
for  word  remembered  by  her. 

The  crowd  through  which  I  had  roughly  forced 
a  passage  for  the  girl  and  myself  closed  again  be 
hind  us,  and,  with  that,  the  doors  of  my  old  life 
creakingly  began  to  move  on  their  rusty  hinges  and 
slowly  started  to  close  themselves  entirely.  They 
did  not  close  themselves  with  a  bang  and  a  slam — 
if  they  had  done  that  I  might  have  been  aware  of 
their  maneuver  and  would,  most  likely,  have  of 
fered  resistance — and,  even  their  slow  move  was  not 
known  to  me  then,  but  only  recognized  by  me  in 
the  years  to  come.  This  happens  to  many  of  us. 
We  are  successful  or  unfortunate,  rich  or  poor, 
and  can  in  our  acquired  state  clearly  trace  back  the 
line  to  an  event  which  was  the  parting  of  the  ways. 

204 


THE 

BEGINNING  OF  THE  MIRACLE 


CHAPTER  XIII. 

THE  BEGINNING  OF  THE  MIRACLE. 

FOR  the  first  time  in  my  life  I  found  myself  play 
ing  the  part  of  a  chivalric  knight,  and,  let  me  assure 
you,  the  poorest  actor  could  not  have  played  it 
worse.  Part  of  my  existence  had  been  to  watch 
others.  Not  to  learn  from  them  by  observation, 
but  to  find  their  weaknesses.  While  engaged  in  the 
most  potent  part  of  my  observations,  I  was 
never  so  concentrated  in  them  that  I  entirely 
overlooked  the  minor  details.  So  I  had  seen  gen 
tlemen  help  ladies  to  and  from  carriages,  had  seen 
them  assist  their  women  friends  across  gutters  and 
crossings,  and  open  doors  for  them.  Walking  be 
side  the  young  lady  I  knew  something  was  expected 
from  me  in  the  line  of  politeness,  but  I  who  had 
always  been  accustomed  to  go  up  "against  die 
hardest  games  and  unfavorable  odds,"  felt  moat 
uncomfortable  at  not  being  sure  what  to  do  in  a  case 
like  this.  Perhaps  this  was  the  reason,  why  I,  in 
stead  of  seeing  her  along  for  a  block  or  two,  kept 


My  Mamie  Rose. 

on  walking  beside  her,  because  I  did  not  know 
how  to  take  leave  without  giving  serious  offense 
by  my  way  of  expressing  my  leavetaking.  The 
truth  of  the  matter  was  I  was  afraid. 

This  confession  of  mine  will  lead  you  to  think 
that  there  was  something  about  her  inspiring  awe 
or  fear.  But  you  are  wrong,  very  wrong. 

She  was  not  tall,  not  statuesque.  She  was 
not  a  "queenly  looking"  girl  judged  by  external  ap 
pearance.  Her  queenliness  was  within,  so  potent, 
so  convincing,  that  neither  man  nor  beast  could  re 
frain  from  bowing  to  it.  I  was  in  the  dilemma  of 
wanting  to  be  a  gentleman,  a  courtier  to  my  queen, 
and  not  knowing  how  to  be  one. 

Somehow  impelled,  I  kept  on  walking  beside  her. 
She  was  not  wanting  in  expressions  of  gratitude, 
but  I  did  no  better  than  to  acknowledge  them  with 
deep-toned  grunts. 

To  explain  matters,  she  told  me  she  was  a  teacher 
in  one  of  the  near-by  schools,  and  was  compelled  to 
pass  our  "hang-out"  every  day  on  her  way  to  and 
from  home.  In  exchange  for  her  confidence  I 
should  have  introduced  myself,  but,  alas !  this  big, 
hulking  oof  knew  naught  of  politeness. 

But  the  bonny  little  lass  was  a  marvel  of  tact  and 
diplomacy.  Not  commenting  on  or  pretending  to 
notice  my  neglect  of  the  customary  introduction,  she 
208 


The  Beginning  of  the  Miracle. 

appointed  herself  inquisitor-in-chief.  She  put  me 
on  the  witness  stand  and  cross-examined  me.  Lead 
ing  questions  were  fired  at  me  with  the  rapidity  of  a 
trained  lawyer.  Ere  I  knew  it,  she  knew  all  about 
me  and  I  felt  ashamed  at  having  a  little  mite  like  her 
break  down  all  the  barriers  of  that  reticence -on 
which  I  prided  myself. 

We  walked  on,  the  street  traveling  beneath  and 
unnoticed  by  us.  She  stopped  me  at  Houston 
street  and  the  Bowery  and  I  looked  about  me  as  if 
descended  from  a  dream.  She  wanted  me  to  leave 
her  there  and  wanted  me  to  return  to  Chatham 
Square,  or  from  wherever  I  had  come.  But  the 
bulldog  in  me  growled  and  persisted  in  seeing  her  to 
her  door.  We  halted  at  a  modest  dwelling-house  in 
Houston  street,  near  Mott  street.  She  thanked  me 
with  very  much  feeling  and,  expecting  a  modicum 
of  manners  from  me,  waited  for  a  second  for  my  re 
sponse.  There  are  things  which  we  learn  without 
being  aware,  and  I  knew  and  felt  that  I  should 
say  something,  but  my  courage  had  fled,  my  knees 
weakened  under  me  and  the  words  which  I  meant  to 
utter  stuck  in  my  throat,  kept  there  by  my  fear  of 
not  being  able  to  use  the  right  expression. 

At  last  I  squeezed  out  a  gruff  "Good  night,"  and 
then  turned  to  leave.  I  was  not  permitted  to  go. 

"Where  are  you  going?"  she  asked.    "I  am  afraid 

20Q 


My  Mamie  Rose. 

you  are  anxious  to  return  to  that  place  on  Chatham 
Square.  Don't  go  there." 

"Where  else  can  I  go?" 

"Where  else  ?"  she  asked,  with  a  mingling  of  pity 
and  contempt.  "Mr.  Kildare,  I  have  absolutely  no 
right  to  interfere  with  your  business,  but  I  have  the 
right  to  tell  you  the  truth.  You  may  not  know  it  or 
would  if  you  did  know  it,  deny  it,  but  you  and  most 
of  the  men  of  that  gang  are  too  good  to  be  of  it.  We 
are  strangers,  and  you  may  think  me  presumptuous, 
but  a  man,  strong  and  able  bodied  as  you,  sins 
against  his  Maker  if  he  wastes  his  days  in  an  idle 
ness  which  is  hurtful  to  himself  and  others." 

"Oh,  I  heard  that  before,  young  lady,  but  that 
sort  of  talk  don't  amount  to  anything." 

"It  doesn't  amount  to  anything?  From  what  you 
have  told  me  about  yourself  and  from  what  I  have 
seen  of  the  street  life,  I  am  afraid  it  is  not  absolutely 
impossible  that,  one  of  these  days,  you  may  find 
yourself  in  serious  trouble.  And,  Mr.  Kildare,  you 
can  rest  assured  that  the  prisons  are  full  of  men 
who  are  convinced  when  it  is  too  late  that  this  sort 
of  talk  does  amount  to  something.  You  say  you  do 
not  know  where  else  to  go  ?  The  evening  is  beauti 
ful.  There  are  parks,  the  river-front,  the  Brooklyn 
Bridge,  where  one  can  go  and  sit  and  think " 


The  Beginning  of  the  Miracle. 

"Think,"  I  interrupted,  "now,  what  would  I  he 
thinking  about?" 

She  remained  silent  for  some  little  While  and  then 
held  out  her  hand  to  me. 

"I  am  so  sorry  for  you,  so  sorry.  Do  try  and  be 
a  man,  a  man  who  has  more  than  strength  and  mus 
cle.  And — and — do  not  be  offended  at  my  solici 
tude — pray,  pray  often."  She  had  almost  entered 
the  hall,  but  stepped  back  again  and  whispered,  "I 
will  pray  for  you  to-night." 

Pray !  I  can  imagine  the  sneer  which  surely  set 
tled  on  my  face.  The  name  of  the  Divinity  had  been 
used  by  me  daily.  But  in  what  manner !  Before  I 
reached  my  teens  I  was  past  master  of  the  art  of 
profanity,  and  my  skill  in  cursing  increased  as  I 
grew  older.  And  now  she  had  counselled  me  to 
pray,  to  use  in  reverence  the  name  which  had  no 
meaning  to  me  and  slipped  glibly  from  my  lips  at  the 
slightest  provocation.  Why,  it  was  ridiculous — but 
was  it  so  very  ridiculous? 

The  two  arch  enemies  began  a  fierce  battle  within 
me.  Without  any  trouble  can  I  remember  my  waflc 
to  Chatham  Square  that  night.  Sometimes  I  halted, 
leaned  up  against  a  lamp  post  and  said:  "By 
Heavens,  I  think  there's  a  great  deal  of  truth  in 
what  'she  said !"  Buoyed  up  by  this  assurance  I 
would  start  afresh,  would  walk  half  a  block  and  then 

MS 


My  Mamie  Rose. 

again  halt  to  listen  to  the  other  voice,  which  whis 
pered  :  "Fool,  don't  listen  to  women's  talk.  You  are 
somebody.  You  are  known  and  feared,  and  wouldn't 
be  that  if  you  were  a  goody-goody." 

Many  men  are  only  feared,  while  they  believe 
themselves  to  be  respected.  That  is  how  it  was  with 
me,  and  that  is  why  my  "other"  voice  did  not  say 
"respected,"  but  "feared." 

The  battle  was  waged  within  me  until  I  was  al 
most  at  Chatham  Square.  And  then  a  strange 
thing  came  to  pass.  Mike  Callahan's  place  was  on 
the  western  side  of  the  square.  I  had  come  down  on 
that  side,  but,  when  on  the  corner  of  the  square,  I 
deliberately  crossed  over  to  the  eastern  sidewalk, 
and,  from  there,  surveyed  my  camping  ground. 

I  stood  and  looked  at  the  flashily  illuminated  front 
of  Mike  Callahan's  dive  and  wavered  between  the 
old-rooted  and  the  new-come  influences.  It  would 
have  been  laughable  had  it  not  been  so  pitiful. 

Just  think,  a  man,  supposedly  intelligent  and  ma 
ture,  considering  himself  the  martyr  of  martyrs  if 
he  had  to  forego  the  "pleasures"  of  Callahan's  dive 
for  one  precious  night. 

The  new-come  influence  was  a  potent  one,  yet  it 
was  so  strange,  so  inexplicable  to  me  that  I  could 
have  refused  to  heed  it  and  would  have  let  my  old 
inclinations  persuade  me,  had  I  not  thought  of  my 


The  Beginning  of  the  Miracle. 

good  old  Bill.  The  importance  of  my  recent  adven 
ture  had  driven  my  partner  temporarily  from  my 
mind.  But  now  I  thought  of  him,  remembered  that 
he  had  been  subjected  to  a  long  fast  by  my  careless 
ness  and  hurried  to  the  attic  to  make  up  for  my 
negligence.  I  found  him  as  expectant  and  philo 
sophical  as  ever,  and  watched  him  with  languid  in 
terest  while  he  was  munching  the  scraps  I  had 
saved  for  him.  Then  it  occurred  to  me  that  Bill 
had  been  deprived  of  his  customary  walk  with  me 
and  had  not  had  a  breath  of  fresh  air  all  day.  It 
also  rankled  in  my  mind  what  she  had  said  about  the 
parks  and  the  Brooklyn  Bridge,  and,  lo  and  behold, 
Bill  and  I  found  ourselves  in  the  street,  bound  for 
City  Hall  Park,  like  two  eminently  respectable  citi 
zens  intent  on  getting  a  little  air. 

I  consoled  myself  for  this  evident  display  of 
weakness  by  emphatically  resolving  to  return  to  Cal- 
lahan's  as  soon  as  Bill  should  have  had  his  fill  of 
fresh  air. 

We  were  comparative  strangers  to  City  Hall  Park. 
Every  foot  of  the  park  and  the  sidewalks  about  it 
had  been  traveled  by  my  bare  feet  many  years  ago, 
but  never  had  I  looked  on  the  leafed  oasis  in  the 
light  of  a  recreation  ground. 

We  felt  a  trifle  out  of  place,  and,  most  likely  on 
that  account  chose  the  most  secluded  and  unob- 
213 


My  Mamie  Rose. 

served  spot  for  our  experimental  siesta.  The  rear 
stoop  of  the  City  Hall,  facing  the  County  Court 
House,  was  in  deep  shadow,  and  there  we  seated 
ourselves  to  test  how  it  felt  to  be  there  just  to  rest. 

It  gradually  began  to  dawn  on  us  that  City  Hall 
Park  was  almost  as  interesting  as  the  sidewalk  in 
front  of  Mike  Callahan's  dive  on  Chatham  Square. 
A  perpetual  stream  of  people  crossed  our  view  on 
their  way  to  and  from  the  Brooklyn  Bridge  and  to 
and  from  the  Jersey  ferries.  Very  few  of  them 
walked  leisurely.  Most  of  them  seemed  in  a  hurry 
and  all  seemed  to  have  a  definite  purpose.  Bill  and 
I  were  the  only  two  without  a  purpose. 

Ah,  no,  it  is  wrong  for  me  to  say  that.  Let  me 
speak  only  for  myself.  Bill  had  a  purpose,  and  a 
noble  one. 

My  thoughts  ran  oddly  that  night.  I  looked 
around  and  saw  the  people  on  the  benches.  Then,  as 
now,  the  majority  of  the  seats  were  occupied  by 
homeless  men,  by  "has-beens." 

"Well,  I  am  surely  better  than  those  tramps,"  I 
assured  myself  with  self-satisfied  smirk. 

Was  I  better  than  those  tramps  ?  The  newer  voice 
gave  me  the  answer.  These  tramps,  useless  now, 
had  once  been  useful,  had  once  worked  and  earned, 
but  I,  almost  thirty  years  of  age,  couldn't  call  one 
day  in  my  life  well  spent. 

814 


The  Beginning  of  the  Miracle. 

It  was  a  wondrous  night  to  us,  this  night  in  the 
shadow  of  City  Hall  Park.  It  was  the  first  night  I 
had  given  to  thought,  and  found  myself  at  my  true 
estimate.  Saints  are  not  made  in  a  day,  and  I  was 
still  hard  and  callous,  but,  after  my  introspec 
tion,  a  feeling  took  possession  of  me  which  very 
much  resembled  shame.  Instead  of  returning:  th* 
way  we  had  come,  via  Chatham  street — now  called 
Park  Row — we  wandered  home  by  the  way  of  Cen 
tre  street.  We  passed  the  Tombs,  the  sinister  prison 
for  the  city's  offenders,  and  Bill  and  I  looked  at  it 
musingly.  There  were  many  in  the  cells  who  were 
known  by  me.  Many  in  them  could  justly  call  me 
their  accomplice,  because  I  had  willingly  spent  their 
money  with  them,  knowing,  or,  at  least,  suspecting, 
how  it  had  been  gotten.  And  how  long  would  it  be 
before  a  cell  in  there  would  be  but  a  way  station  for 
me  before  taking  the  long  journey  "up  the  river"? 

The  mere  suggestion  of  it  was  shivery  and  I  re 
marked  to  Bill  that  our  attic,  no  matter  how  humble, 
was  preferable  to  a  sojourn  at  Sing-Sing. 

Then  an  inspiration  came  to  me,  and,  to  this  very 
day  I  am  making  myself  believe  it  came  from  old 
Bill.  Most  likely  I  am  a  fool  for  doing  it,  but  I 
want  to  have  my  old  pal  have  his  full  share  of  credit 
in  my  reincarnation.  The  inspiration  was:  "Why 
not  try  and  stay  in  my  attic  in  preference  to  going 
215 


My  Mamie  Rose. 

to  Sing-Sing?"  To  this  came  an  augmentation: 
"If  able  to  keep  away  from  the  road  that  leads  to 
prison,  it  may  not  always  be  necessary  to  stay  in  an 
attic.  There  are  more  nicely  furnished  rooms  in 
the  city  than  your  cubby-hole  on  the  top  floor,  friend 
Kildare." 

How  can  I  now,  at  this  long  range,  analyze  my 
feelingis  of  that  critical  night?  I  would  have  to 
perform  a  psychic  wonder,  and  I  am  not  that  kind 
of  a  magician.  But  I  did  not  go  back  to  Callahan's, 
and  have  never  been  there  since  as  a  participant  in 
the  slimy  festivities. 

Up  in  our  attic  Bill  and  I  gave  ourselves  up  to 
much  mutual  scrutiny.  Some  outward  change  in  me 
must  have  been  noticeable,  for  Bill  watched  me  most 
critically. 

The  one  thing  I  remember  best  of  all  the  little 
incidents  which  left  their  clear  impressions  on  my 
mind  was  my  first  attempt  at  praying. 

Bill  laid  in  his  usual  place  at  the  foot  of  my  bed, 
and  I  was  stretched  on  my  back,  gazing  into  the 
ceiling  and  overcoming  my  astonishment  at  being 
in  bed  at  such  an  unearthly  early  hour  by  going 
over  the  events  of  the  day.  I  lingered  longest  at  the 
scene  at  her  door  and  tried  to  laugh  when  my  train 
brought  me  to  her  advice  to  pray.  Somehow  the 
laugh  was  not  sincere,  and,  instead  of  being  able  to 
216 


The  Beginning  of  the  Miracle. 

continue  my  mind's  recital,  I  could  not  get  away 
from  her  admonition. 

That  was  not  all.  A  soliloquy  ensued  and  ended 
with  the  result  of  giving  prayer  a  chance  to  prove 
itself.  Why  not  ?  It  did  not  cost  anything,  might 
do  some  good  after  all,  and,  besides,  it  would  be 
interesting  to  note  how  it  felt  to  pray. 

I  prayed,  and  you  will  not  accuse  me  of  irrev 
erence  when  I  make  the  statement  that  my  prayer 
was  certainly  one  of  the  funniest  that  ever  rolled  on 
to  the  Father's  throne.  It  was  hardly  a  prayer. 
The  "thou"  and  "thee"  and  "thy"  were  sadly  miss 
ing.  I  did  not  think  or  ask  with  faith.  Quite  the 
reverse.  I  frankly  avowed  my  skepticism.  The 
substance  of  it  was  that  I  had  been  told  God  could 
do  much,  everything.  The  one  who  had  told  me  this 
possessed  my  greatest  respect,  yet  was  only  a  little 
girl  and  not  as  experienced  as  I,  and,  perhaps, 
fooled.  So,  if  God  wanted  me  to  believe  in  Him,  He 
would  have  to  give  me  conclusive  proof  right  away 
or  else  lose  a  follower.  It  was  a  heart-to-heart  talk 
of  the  most  informal  kind  and — are  they  not  the 
best  prayers  ? 

I  said  quite  coolly  that  I  had  been  told  I  wasn't  as 

much  of  a  man  as  I  had  thought  myself  to  be  and 

that  there  was  a  much  better  life  than  the  one  I 

had  led.     Well,  I  was  willing  to  try  it,  and,  if  I 

917 


My  Mamie  Rose. 

really  liked  the  newer  life  better  than  the  old  one,  I 
promised  to  stick  as  closely  to  God  as  I  had  stuck 
to  all  that  was  evil  before. 

One  should  not  bargain  with  the  Creator,  but  I 
am  sure  that  on  the  Judgment  Day  my  God  will 
find  extenuating  circumstances.  As  for  the  bar 
gain  made  that  night,  both  parties  have  lived  up 
to  it. 


til 


THE  OLD  DOORS  CLOSED. 


CHAPTER  XIV. 

THE    OLD    DOORS    CLOSED. 

SOBER  to  bed  and  sober  out  of  it  was  an  uncom 
mon  experience  and  I  felt  embarrassed  by  the  un 
wonted  sensation.  Happily  I  found  some  money  in 
my  pocket  and  that  deprived  me  of  the  excuse  to  my 
conscience  that  I  must  go  to  Callahan's  so  as  to  get 
my  breakfast  money.  How  we  ate  that  morning, 
Bill  and  I,  and  how  we  relished  our  breakfast.  Yes, 
I  had  a  drink,  a  big  drink  of  whiskey,  but  not  be 
cause  I  had  forgotten  my  resolve  of  the  night  before, 
but  because  I  was  yet  ignorant.  To  be  quite  frank, 
I  have  always  been  a  bit  cynical  about  these  sudden 
conversions  of  confirmed  drunkards. 

Not  long  ago  I  met  a  man  at  a  rescue  mission 
where  I  frequently  attend,  who,  as  we  say  on  the 
Bowery,  "eats  whiskey"  and  almost  subsists  on  it. 
He  was  homeless,  or  rather  bedless,  his  home  being 
forfeited  long  ago,  and  received  his  "bed  ticket" 
from  the  missionary  after  his  confession  of  salva 
tion.  I  happened  to  meet  him  on  the  following  day 

221 


The  Old  Doors  Closed. 

and  his  breath  was  strong  with  the  perfume  of 
cloves.  He  told  me  he  liked  to  chew  them,  which  is 
rather  an  odd  hobby. 

Far  be  it  from  me  to  slander  any  one,  yet  the 
perfume  of  cloves  can  hide  a  multitude  of  aromas. 
Sublime  is  the  aim  of  the  rescue  missions,  but  how 
and  whether  they  accomplish  this  aim  is  another 
story,  which  we  might  discuss  at  some  future  time. 
Another  habit,  which  also  still  clung  to  me,  was 
my  late  rising.  It  was  noon  before  Bill  and  I  ap 
peared  on  the  street  on  our  way  to  the  restaurant. 
After  breakfast  we  walked  over  to  City  Hall  Park, 
looked  gravely  and  wisely  at  the  spot  where  we  had 
sat  the  night  before,  and  then  we  permitted  our 
selves  the  luxury  of  a  day  dream. 

Dreams  are  funny  fellows,  always  playing  pranks. 
This  dream  kept  me  embraced  until  I  found  myself 
in  the  immediate  neighborhood  of  the  school  where 
a  certain  little  professor  was  engaged  in  leading  the 
infantile  mind  through  the  labyrinth  of  the  A,  B, 
C's. 

Soon  they  began  to  stumble  out  with  noisy,  nat 
ural,  healthy  laughter  and  hubbub,  and  the  dingy 
street  became  one  long,  squirming  stream  of  bab 
bling  children.  I  could  not  help  looking  back  on 
my  boyish  years  and  tried  to  imagine  how  it  would 
feel  to  have  your  slate  and  books  under  your  arm. 

Mi 


The  Old  Doors  Closed. 

There  were  many  youngsters  before  me  and  I  kept 
staring  at  them  to  draw  the  picture  in  my  mind's  eye 
of  how  I  would  have  looked  coming  from  school, 
my  school. 

At  last  she  came! 

As  I  saw  the  little  tots,  her  pupils,  cling  to  her 
skirts  from  very  love  of  her,  I  felt  a  light,  an  ori- 
flamme,  within  my  breast,  and  knew  that  I  would 
have  to  fight  a  harder  fight  than  ever  before ;  that  T 
would  have  to  conquer  myself  before  I  would  dare  to 
touch  the  hem  of  her  skirt  as  those  children.  And  he 
who  fights,  fights  best  when  in  the  sight  of  an  in 
spiring  emblem.  So  then  I  took  my  sailing  flag  and 
nailed  it  to  the  mast  of  purity.  It  has  withstood  all 
sorts  of  weather.  Sometimes  it  droops,  again  it  flies 
defiantly.  But,  whatever,  it  is  still  safely  on  the  mast 
and  will  stay  there  until  I  strike  my  colors  for  the 
last  dipping  to  my  God  above. 

I  crossed  the  street  and  put  myself  in  her  way  so 
that  she  could  not  help  seeing  me. 

"Oh,  Mr.  Kildare!" 

She  remembered  my  name. 

It  is  impossible  for  me  to  recall  how  I  acted  at 
this  meeting.  However,  I  consider  it  very  fortunate 
that  no  camera  fiend  took  a  snapshot  at  me.  The 
human  document  which  would  have  evolved  from 
it  would  certainly  be  very  embarrassing  to  me. 
323 


My  Mamie  Rose. 

Still,  lout,  churl  as  I  was,  it  was  the  first  time  in  my 
life  that  I  spoke  to  a  girl  without  even  the  shadow 
of  an  ulterior  or  impure  motif,  and  some  of  my  want 
of  politeness  may  be  forgiven  on  that  account. 

If  I  cannot  recollect  my  behavior  during  that 
scene,  I  can  correctly  recollect  my  feelings.  I  was 
in  a  turmoil.  Her  face  showed  real,  unaffected 
pleasure  on  seeing  me,  and  that  to  me,  if  you  will  un 
derstand  my  social  position  then — was  an  incom 
parable  boon.  If  people,  the  good,  well  intending 
people,  would  only  realize  that  the  hardest  heart  is 
very  often  the  most  ready  to  respond  to  genuine 
kindness  and  that,  usually,  it  is  only  hard,  because, 
through  life,  it  had  to  be  satisfied  with  the  stereo 
typed  prating  which  passes  as  a  message  from  our 
all-loving  and  loving-all  God ! 

Knowing  the  awkward  propensities  of  my  limbs 
and  arms,  it  does  not  surprise  me  in  the  least  that  I 
stood  there  shuffling  and  wobbling,  and  never  notic 
ing  the  little  hand  held  out  to  me  in  truest  greeting. 

She  greeted  me  kindly,  in  evident  surprise. 

Most  gingerly  I  took  her  dainty  hand  into  my  big, 
brawny  paw.  She  spoke  of  the  "chance  meeting." 
Since  then  I  have  often  felt  certain  that  when  I  said 
"chance  meeting,"  a  twinkle  danced  for  the  time  of  a 
breath  in  her  eyes.  Afterward,  I  often  accused  her 
of  it  and  was  severely  squelched  for  my  presumption. 
224 


The  Old  Doors  Closed. 

Yet,  yes,  she  was  an  angel,  but  also  very  much  of  a 
woman,  and,  between  you  and  me,  there  are  times 
when  a  true,  little  woman  with  staunch  heart,  level 
head  and  unwavering  faith  is  of  more  practical  bene 
fit  to  a  rough,  big  fellow  like  me  than  the  angel 
who  wouldn't  dare  take  a  chance  of  spoiling  those 
snowy  garments  or  to  let  the  harp  remain  un- 
twanged  for  a  few  moments. 

Being  more  unfamiliar  with  etiquette  than  I  am 
now,  I  had  no  little  white  lie  ready,  but  blurted 
out  that  I  had  come  there  for  the  express  purpose  of 
seeing  her.  She  seemed  a  trifle  annoyed  at  this 
and  I  hastened  to  explain  that  I  was  there  to  see  her 
home,  so  that  she  would  not  have  to  run  the  risk 
of  being  insulted  again.  When  she  learned  this 
determination  of  mine  to  act  henceforth  as  her 
body  guard,  she  chided  at  first,  declared  it  absolutely 
unnecessary,  but  then  laughed,  and  told  me  it  was 
very  kind  of  me. 

And  all  this  time  I  was  playing  a  part  and,  as  I 
thought,  so  perfectly  that  she  could  not  penetrate 
my  disguise.  But  she  could  not  be  deceived.  She 
quickly  saw  through  my  pretense  of  wishing  to  ap 
pear  a  fairly  considerate  man  of  the  world,  who, 
not  having  anything  better  to  do,  would  do  a  chival 
rous  act  merely  for  the  sake  of  killing  some  of  his 


325 


My  Mamie  Rose. 

superfluous  time.    The  only  wonder  is  that  she  per 
mitted  me  to  bother  her. 

Then,  though  no  daisies  or  roses  garlanded  our 
path  and  though  we  walked  along  the  crowded,  not 
too  clean,  sidewalks  in  the  precincts  of  the  poor, 
began  walks  that  one  could  turn  into  poetry,  but 
which  I  cannot  do,  not  having  the  essential  gift  of 
expression.  All  I  could  do  in  return  for  being  per 
mitted  to  be  beside  her  was  to  devote  myself  entirely 
to  the  task  of  protecting  her.  Protect  her  against 
what? 

You  know  the  most  glorious  thing  about  love  is 
that  it  is  no  respecter  of  persons.  To  rich  and  poor 
it  comes  alike ;  here  to  be  received  in  passion  and 
impurity,  there  to  be  welcomed  in  a  better  spirit 
and  to  be  nested  in  an  ever-loyal  heart.  But  the 
bad  thing  about  love  is  that  it  makes  us  lose  our 
proper  respect  for  truth.  In  short,  it  makes  splendid 
liars  out  of  us. 

Where  is  there  the  young  man  who  has  not  told 
her  whom  he  adored  that  her  eyes  made  the  most 
brilliant  star  look  like  a  tallow  candle,  or  that  her 
cheeks  were  as  peaches? 

In  the  same  way  did  I  magnify  my  knightly  duty 

to  myself.    Surely  the  dangers  along  the  journey  to 

her  home  were  trifling  and  few,  but,  thanks  to  my 

love-stirred    imagination,    I    felt    as    serious   as   a 

326 


The  Old  Doors  Closed. 

plumed  knight,  and  no  proud  queen  in  days  of  sword 
and  lance  had  more  devoted  cavalier  to  fight,  die  or 
live  for  her.  That  now  became  my  sole  duty,  and 
with  such  duty,  to  serve  the  best  and  truest,  a  man 
must  grow  better  even  in  spite  of  himself. 

Every  day,  rain  or  shine,  I  waited  on  the  corner 
above  the  schoctl  to  serve  as  permanent  escort. 
Every  day  she  told  me  it  was  not  necessary  to  see 
her  home,  yet,  every  day  she  permitted  me  to  do  so. 
When  one  arrives  in  a  strange  land  the  smaller 
details  are  often  not  noticed,  and,  afterward,  you 
can  only  re-see  the  grander  pictures.  I  cannot  tell 
you  how  and  why  the  turns  in  our  conversations 
occurred,  but  I  can  remember  certain  bits  of  talk 
and  questions,  very  important  to  both  of  us. 

For  instance,  on  our  third  meeting  she  asked 
me  if  I  were  still  one  of  Mike  Callahan's  orna 
mental  fixtures.  I  felt  then,  as  many  of  us  have 
felt  before  and  will  feel  again;  I  was  ashamed  to 
admit  that  I  had  severed  my  connection  with  the 
gang  and  had  not  been  there  since  the  night  I  had 
taken  her  home.  You  see,  I  still  considered  myself 
a  "red-hot  sport,"  and  did  not  care  to  be  identified 
with  anything  that  was  goody-goody.  Since  then  I 
have  learned  that  it  is  quite  the  thing  among  certain 
sets  to  speak  lightly  of  one's  religion  and  to  laugh 
at  being  found  out  as  an  occasional  church-goer. 

28? 


My  Mamie  Rose. 

It  makes  such  a  rakish  impression  to  intimate  you 
are  "really  devilish." 

So,  to  her  question,  I  did  not  give  a  straightfor 
ward  answer,  but  hummed  and  hawed  and — lied. 

"No,  I  ain't  been  there  the  last  two  nights,  because 
— because,  I  wasn't  feeling  any  too  good,  and — and, 
oh,  yes,  one  night  I  went  up  to  a  show." 

The  greatest  lies  can  be  compressed  into  the 
smallest  parcels,  yet  they  always  weigh  the  same. 

She  had  a  way  of  letting  me  know  when  my  lies 
were  too  transparent.  It  was  not  what  she  said,  but 
how  she  looked  when  she  said  it. 

In  reality  I  had  stood  away  from  Callahan's  be 
cause  I  had  taken  a  dislike  to  the  place  and  every 
body  in  it,  but,  of  course,  it  would  have  never  done 
to  tell  that  to  a  little  slip  of  a  girl. 

Apparently  my  explanation  was  not  taken  at  its 
face  value,  for  she  merely  said :  "Oh,  I  see."  Barely 
a  second  later  she  added :  "Oh,  I'm  so  glad." 

The  intuition  of  women  is  certainly  wonderful. 
Even  such  an  accomplished  diplomat  as  myself  was 
floored  on  the  spot  by  a  little  girl. 

Well,  the  days  wore  on,  and  our  walks  became  to 
me  walks  in  an  unknown  realm.  Ker  little  casual 
references  to  mother,  brother,  home,  friends  and 
daily  work  gave  me  a  vista  of  a  life  not  even  imag 
ined  by  me.  To  live  as  she,  in  well-regulated  house- 

J28 


The  Old   Doors  Closed. 

hold  and  according  to  well-ordained  schedule,  had 
never  been  desired  by  me  and,  therefore,  never  been 
considered  by  me. 

"If  that  kind  of  life  turns  out  such  fine  little  wo 
men,  it  can't  be  so  bad  after  all,  and  may  be  worth 
trying,"  was  my  train  of  reasoning,  and  a  dull  but 
positive  desire  to  try  that  sort  of  life  began  to  rankle 
in  my  soul. 

While  I  was  engaged  in  these  musings,  she  did 
not  keep  entirely  quiet,  but  put  me  through  the  most 
severe  kind  of  civil  service.  I  had  to  answer  so 
many  questions — and  truthfully,  too,  as  she  could 
tell  a  fabrication  immediately — until  I  honestly 
believe  every  hour  of  my  life  was  covered.  The 
finish  of  it  all  was  that  I  was  made  the  subject  of 
several  of  the  most  scathing  lectures  ever  delivered. 
Those  sermons  fairly  made  my  blood  boil,  and  often, 
under  my  breath,  I  wished  she  were  a  man,  that  I 
could  close  the  lecturing  for  good  and  all  with  a 
blow. 

It  is  simply  awful  how  impudent  little  people — 
and  especially  women — are.  And  the  worst  of  it  is 
that  we  big  fellows  have  to  stand  it  from  them. 

She  had  a  peculiarly  direct  way  of  getting  at 
things  and  never  minced  matters.  The  effect  of  it 
was  that  I  began  to  shrink  into  myself 

A  leering  knave,  I  had  stood  on  the  pinnacle  of 
229 


My  Mamie  Rose. 

wickedness;  had  grinned  and  sneered  at  decency, 
manhood  and  womanhood;  had  thought  myself  a 
"somebody"  because  the  laws  of Xjod  and  man  were 
unregarded  by  me,  and  because  a  chorus  of  fools 
and  friends  had  always  shouted  an  amen  to  my 
deeds,  and  now — now  I  awoke  to  the  pitiful  fact 
that  I  was  not  only  a  "nobody,"  but  a  despicable, 
contemptible  thing,  witfiout  the  least  of  claims  to 
the  grandest  title — man. 

Yes,  there  was  no  denying  the  fact,  the  *'som»- 
body"  had  fallen,  sadly  fallen  from  his  horse,  and 
all  his  house  of  cards  had  been  knocked  into  smither 
eens  bv  a  little  bit  of  a  schoolma'am. 


230 


A  KINDERGARTEN  OF  ONE. 


CHAPTER  XV. 

A    KINDERGARTEN    OF    ONE. 

KEEPING  away  from  Callahan's  and  from  the  sin 
ister  harvest  which  was  often  reaped  there,  had  a 
depressing  effect  on  my  income.  For  a  compara 
tively  long  time  I  lived  on  a  few  dollars,  which  came 
to  me  from  outstanding  loans,  now  determinedly  col 
lected.  I  learned  then  that  if  one  keeps  away  from 
Callahan's  and  places  like  it,  one  can  subsist  on  a 
remarkably  small  income.  As  it  had  been  with  me, 
it  was  always  a  case  of  "getting  it  easy  and  spending 
it  easy." 

My  expenses  became  the  object  of  much  thinking 
and  figuring.  So  much  for  room  rent,  so  much  for 
meals,  including  Bill's  fare,  and  so  much  for  shaves 
and  incidentals  were  estimated  at  the  lowest  mini 
mum  and  so  as  to  last  the  longest  until  something 
should  turn  up.  This  something  did  not  fail  to  turn 
up. 

When  the  funds  became  dangerously  low,  I  be- 
233 


My  Mamie  Rose. 

thought  myself  of  some  of  my  swell  friends,  who 
had  often  evinced  a  desire  to  have  me  "train"  them 
or  keep  them  in  condition.  These  propositions  had 
been  so  frequent  as  to  make  me  think  that  to  be  rich 
included  being  rich  in  ailments. 

Some  wanted  me  to  make  them  thin,  others  desired 
more  flesh  to  cover  their  bones,  and  they  all  came  to 
me,  I  being  such  an  authority  on  anatomy  and  phyaJ- 
ology ! 

I  communicated  with  many  of  these  ailing  swell* 
and  ere  long  made  a  fairly  good  living  by  my  phys 
ical  culture  lessons.  There  is  a  heavy  cloud  on  my 
conscience  that  on  my  balance-sheet  a  score  of 
offenses  are  recorded  against  me  in  connection  with 
the  furtherance  of  my  physical  culture  system.  A 
frank  confession  is  good  for  the  soul,  and  I  might  as 
well  confess  right  here  that,  only  too  frequently,  I 
prescribed  the  identically  same  course  for  fat  and 
lean. 

This  calling  of  mine  was  not  without  humor.  I 
remember  a  "patient"  who  was  troubled  with  too 
much  embonpoint.  He  did  not  believe  in  the  pre 
scriptions  of  his  physician,  but  rather  preferred  the 
physical  culture  system  of  "Professor"  Kildare. 
He  was  a  man  of  much  weight  in  public  affairs  and 
in  flesh.  About  250  pounds  in  the  flesh,  if  I  remem 
ber  right. 

*34 


A  Kindergarten  of  One. 

He  lived  in  the  immediate  neighborhood  of  Madi 
son  Square,  and  for  a  long  succession  of  many 
mornings  a  select  audience,  including  'several  news 
boys,  a  few  policemen  and  myself,  had  the  edifying 
spectacle  of  seeing  these  250  absolutely-refusing-to- 
raelt  pounds  chase  around  the  square  like  mad  at 
5A.M. 

I  do  not  think  it  did  him  very  much  harm  arvd  it 
did  the  audience  an  awful  lot  of  good,  if  you  will 
take  laughter  as  an  indication  of  increasing  health. 

No  fear  of  want  or  need  threatening  me,  I  gave 
myself  completely  up  to  peeping  into  the  better  life. 
I  fairly  revelled  in  my  new  experience,  and  dreams 
by  day  and  night  were  my  only  territory. 

A  few  weeks  of  this  and  then  a  crisis  came. 

We  had  reached  her  house  from  our  customary 
walk  from  the  school.  I  had  taken  leave  and  had 
already  taken  a  few  steps,  when  she  called  me  back. 

"Mr.  Kildare,  I  forgot  something." 

I  was  quickly  back  to  the  door  waiting  to  hear 
what  she  had  forgotten. 

She  took  a  small  card  from  her  bag  and  handed  it 
to  me. 

"Mr.  Kildare,  you  have  been  very  kind  and  con 
siderate  and  I  would  like  to  show  you  that  I  ap 
preciate  it.    I  am  afraid  you  will  find  it  rather  tame, 
but  I  hope  you  will  come." 
235 


My  Mamie  Rose. 

I  twirled  the  card  between  my  fingers  and  without 
looking  at  it  asked:  "What  is  it?" 

"Why,  just  a  little  social  entertainment  of  our 
church." 

"When  and  where  does  it  take  place?"  I  still 
kept  on  asking. 

"I  am  not  quite  sure  as  to  the  date,  but  the  card 
will  tell  you." 

As  it  was  said,  I  could  do  no  less  than  refer  to  the 
card.  Whether  I  held  the  card  upside  down  or  what 
I  did,  I  do  not  know,  but  my  secret  was  out  and 
nothing  could  hide  it  any  longer. 

There  I  stood,  to  all  appearances  a  man,  intelligent 
and  able-bodied,  and  not  able  to  cipher  or  decipher 
even  my  own  name. 

I  felt  all  go  away  from  me.  My  fairy  palace  of 
bliss  crumbled  to  pieces.  What  else  could  I  do 
but  slink  away,  to  hide  myself,  my  ignorance,  my 
shame  forever? 

Why  prolong  the  agony  of  this  torturing  moment? 

I  turned  quickly  without  a  word,  intending  to  re 
turn  to  the  dark  "whence"  from  which  I  had  come. 

But  before  I  had  taken  a  step  a  little  hand  grasped 
my  arm,  and  then  and  there  took  up  its  faithful 
guidance  of  me,  and  every  fibre  of  my  big,  ungainly 
frame  thrilled  at  this  waking  of  the  better  life. 

The  memory  of  the  following  months — yes,  years 
236 


A  Kindergarten  of  One 

— but  for  the  tingeing  sadness  would  be  a  bit  of 
most  laughable  humor. 

The  work  of  my  little  schoolma'am  became  dou 
bled.  Besides  her  class  at  school  she  saddled  herself 
with  this  unwieldy,  husky  kindergarten  of  one.  I 
know  many  youngsters — God  bless  them ! — who  like 
their  school  and  studies,  but  they  were  not  in  it  with 
me  in  the  drilling  of  my  A,  B,  C's.  Never  was  the 
alphabet  more  quickly  mastered.  In  a  surprisingly 
short  time  "c-a-t,  cat,"  and  "r-a-t,  rat,"  were  spelled 
by  me  with  the  facility  of  a  primary  scholar. 

Who  would  not  have  learned  quickly  with  such  a 
teacher  ? 

My  good  old  Bill  did  not  fail  to  note  this  educa 
tional  process  and  was  sorely  puzzled  at  it. 

Our  attic  became  a  study;  the  washstand  a  stu 
dent's  desk,  with  a  big,  ungainly  head  bent  close  to  a 
smoking  oil  lamp. 

How  I  pored  over  my  private  lessons ! 

The  pen  in  cramped  fingers  would  trace  those  tan 
talizing  letters,  while  the  lips  gruffly  murmured  the 
spelling.  Naturally,  arithmetic  was  also  included  in 
my  curriculum,  and  often  Bill  had  flung  at  him  the 
maddening  puzzle :  "Seven  into  thirty-five  goes  how 
many  times — yes,  how  many  times?" 

Bill  always  sat  beside  me  during  my  studies  and 
blinked  a  hundred  questions  at  me. 
*37 


My  Mamie  Rose. 

"Say,  Kil,  what  are  you  up  to  now  ?  I  am  afraid 
it  is  some  new  sort  of  tomfoolery.  If  not,  why 
can't  I  do  it,  too?" 

I  often  answered  and  explained,  but  the  situation 
was  not  fully  grasped  by  my  old  pal  until  he  met  my 
teacher.  And  then?  Why  the  rocks,  the  hillsides, 
trees  and  birds  and  flowers  were  all  responsive  to 
that  little  sprite,  and  Bill,  in  just  one  glance,  saw 
that  the  fairy  of  our  destinies  had  but  begun  her 
miracle  of  love. 

But  even  dolls  can  be  made  to  talk  .and  parrots 
can  imitate  empty  chatter.  My  teacher  wanted  me 
to  have  the  means  to  lift  myself  out  of  my  ditch. 
The  little  sculptor  who  was  moulding  this  huge 
mass  of  the  commonest  clay  into  the  semblance  of  a 
man  wanted  to  waken  that  in  me  which  would  make 
me  something  apart  from  the  thing  I  had  been. 
Coming  out  of  blackest  darkness  I  was  not  led  at 
once  into  the  radius  of  the  dazzling  light,  but,  as 
with  the  tots  in  her  class  at  school,  she  coached  me, 
step  by  step,  into  the  way  of  righteous  intelligence. 

Gradually  I  began  to  see — to  see  with  the  eyes  of 
my  soul — and  I  found  a  great  world  about  me 
abounding  in  the  evidences  of  an  almighty  and  wise 
Creator.  I  began  to  understand  and  love  this  newer 
and  better  life,  and  began  to  hate  the  old  life,  which 
often  tried  to  tempt  me  back  to  it. 
338 


A  Kindergarten  of  One. 

Our  lessons  were  carried  on  with  much  incon- 
tenience  and  difficulty.  The  distance  from  school 
to  home  was  little  more  than  ten  blocks,  and  during 
the  time  it  took  us  to  walk  that  length  I  had  to  report 
my  lesson  and  to  receive  instructions  for  additional 
study.  The  inconvenience  of  this  method  was  not 
at  all  conducive  to  learning,  and  one  day  I  was  asked 
by  my  teacher  to  come  to  her  house  to  receive  my 
lesson  there. 

I  could  hardly  believe  mine  own  ears.  I  was  to 
see  the  very  place  in  which  she  lived.  It  was  beyond 
belief.  Was  it  not  a  sacrifice  on  her  part?  Indeed 
it  was,  and  I  can  never  sufficiently  emphasize  the 
many  sacrifices  this  sweet  little  girl  underwent  for 
me  from  the  beginning  to  the  very  end. 

Let  us  understand  her  position. 

Marie  Deering  was  the  sole  support  of  her  mother 
and  a  young  invalid  brother.  Besides  these  two  she 
had  only  one  other  relative,  an  elder  brother  in  a  far 
western  city.  The  father,  a  retired  captain  of  en 
gineers  in  the  British  army,  had  come  to  America  to 
dispose  of  several  inventions.  Whatever  the  value 
of  these  inventions,  the  captain  knew  little  of  the 
ways  of  business  and  commerce,  and  soon  found 
himself  minus  his  inventions  and  balance  of  his  sav 
ings.  Disappointment  and  failing  health  combined 


•39 


My  Mamie  Rose. 

to  shorten  his  days,  and  the  little  family  found  them 
selves  fatherless. 

The  burden  to  provide  fell  then  on  the  shoulders 
of  the  daughter,  and  that,  as  all  her  other  burdens, 
was  borne  with  a  fortitude  worthy  of  a  saint  in 
heaven. 

It  goes  without  saying  that  the  Deerings  were 
refined  people,  and  you  can  imagine  what  it  meant 
to  them  to  have  a  big,  uncouth  fellow  intrude  into 
their  home  circle.  I  shall  never  forget  the  horror- 
stricken  countenance  of  Mrs.  Deering  when  I  ap 
peared  for  my  first  lesson.  It  needed  no  inter 
preter  to  read  the  question  in  her  eyes :  "For  good 
ness'  sake,  where  did  this  come  from,  and  what  is 
it?" 

But  I  immediately  found  a  dear  little  ally  in  my 
teacher's  invalid  brother,  who  quickly  discovered  me 
a  willing  horse  for  many  a  wild  and  hazardous  canter 
from  kitchen  to  parlor. 

This  first  glance  into  real  home  life  fairly  upset 
me.  Since  then  I  have  seen  many  more  luxurious 
places,  but  none  where  my  heart  felt  so  much  at 
home.  I  noticed  everything — the  neatness,  the 
taste  of  the  modest  decorations — and  I  set  my  teeth 
and  said :  "I,  too,  will  have  a  home,  a  real  home,  and, 
perhaps,  not  only  for  myself,  but " 

Ah,  it  was  too  early  to  dream  that  far. 
240 


A  Kindergarten  of  One. 

To  dream  of  things  will  never  bring  them.  People 
who  had  known  me  had  always  given  me  credit  for 
stubborn  determination  in  wicked  pursuits.  I  re 
solved  to  test  the  strength  of  my  determination  by 
applying  it  to  a  better  end. 

As  soon  as  my  mentor  ascertained  that  my  income 
came  from  practising  my  uniform  system  of  physical 
culture,  of  which  the  only  beneficiary  was  the  in 
ventor  and  professor,  she  counselled  against  it  and 
told  me  to  cease  it. 

This  brought  me  face  to  face  with  my  most  novel 
experience.  I  looked  for  work — good,  honest,  hard 
work. 

My  luck  surprised  me. 

Only  a  few  months  had  passed  since  the  beginning 
of  my  transformation,  but  it  had  been  noticed  by 
men  whom  I  had  thought  indifferent  to  my  fate. 

I  can  say,  with  all  the  conviction  possible,  that,  if 
a  man  determines  without  compromise  to  do  right, 
he  will  find  friends,  all  willing  to  help  along,  among 
those  he  had  expected  to  be  nothing  more  than  mere 
acquaintances.  And  another  thing.  I  also  claim — 
and  it  has  never  disproven  itself  to  me — that  the  man 
who  really  wants  to  work  can  always  find  it,  friends 
or  no  friends.  The  rub  is  that  "suitable"  work  can 
not  always  be  found  so  easily.  It  is  this  lack  of 
"suitable"  work  which  sends  men  to  Bowery  lodg- 
241 


My  Mamie  Rose. 

ing-houses,  there  to  keep  themselves  in  high  collars 
and  cuffs  by  begging  instead  of  soiling  their  tender 
hands  by  the  first  work  offered  to  them. 

I  started  out  to  do  my  hustling  turn  and  had  no 
trouble  in  finding  work.  Happily  it  was  of  the — to 
me — "suitable"  kind. 

I  went  to  work  at  one  of  the  steamboat  piers  as 
a  baggageman — sometimes  lovingly  referred  to  as  a 
"baggage-smasher."  The  wages  were  eight  dollars 
a  week,  and  that  was  a  smaller  amount  than  I  had 
often  "earned"  in  one  night  while  employed  in  the 
dives. 

On  my  first  pay  day,  those  eight  dollars  were  re 
counted  by  me  innumerable  times,  not  because  I 
was  dissatisfied  with  the  smallness  of  the  amount, 
but  because  I  felt  good,  really  good,  at  having  at 
length  earned  a  week's  wages  by  honest  toil.  Every 
one  of  those  bills  had  its  own  meaning  for  me. 

My  teacher  knew  of  my  new  employment,  and, 
with  my  first  pay  I  bought  a  little  gift  for  her.  It 
also  gave  me  a  pretext  for  explaining  to  her  my 
future  plans. 

Much  of  her  time  had  been  taken  up  with  me,  and 
I  owed  all  of  my  new  life  to  her  endeavor.  Persist 
ently  she  claimed  that  all  her  efforts  were  only  a 
small  return  for  the  favor  done  for  her  by  me,  and 
that,  besides,  it  was  her  duty  to  help  me  to  gain  a 


A  Kindergarten  of  One. 

foothold  on  my  new  road  of  life.  This  argument 
failed  to  convince  me,  as  my  favor  amounted  to 
nothing,  and  I  understood  without  difficutly  that  all 
the  benefit  I  received  from  her  unceasing  toil  with 
me  was  inspired  by  nothing  else  than  the  sweet, 
Christian  spirit  which  ruled  everyone  of  her  actions. 
I  insisted  that  it  would  have  been  an  imposition  for 
me  to  be  a  trouble  and  bother  to  her  any  longer, 
especially  when  I  had  steady  employment,  which 
afforded  me  the  time  and  means  to  attend  evening 
schools  and  to  study  at  home  in  spare  hours.  I 
wanted  to  thank  her,  and  not  be  quite  so  conspicu 
ous  where,  because  of  social  differences,  I  felt  I  did 
not  belong. 

I  mentioned  something  about  coming  from  the 
gutter.  As  always,  she  had  an  answer,  and  a  flat 
tering  one,  ready.  As  to  coming  from  the  gutter, 
she  expostulated,  why,  many  a  coin  is  dropped  there 
and  remains  until  some  one  picks  it  up  and,  by  a 
little  polishing,  makes  it  as  good  as  it  ever  was. 

It  was  just  like  her.  She  always  claimed  to  have 
found  in  me  something  good,  something  I  could 
never  have  discovered.  On  the  other  hand,  as  soon 
as  we  resumed  the  lessons,  she  found  that  quite  often 
her  pupil  could  be  severely  trying. 

It  was  the  harrowing  science  of  arithmetic  which 
caused  the  most  trouble,  and  even  to  this  day — but 
343 


My  Mamie  Rose. 

that  is  a  different  story.  I  had  a  confirmed  habit  of 
becoming  hopelessly  muddled  in  my  multiplication 
table.  When  floundering  in  the  numerical  labyrinth 
I  would  hear  just  the  faintest  little  sigh,  and,  look 
ing  up,  would  see  a  dear  little  forehead  showing  the 
most  cunning  wrinkles  of  resignation.  It  was  then 
that  horrid  wickedness  would  take  possession  of  me, 
and  I  would  intentionally  make  more  mistakes  just 
to  see  those  eyes  reproach  me  for  my  stupidity.  I 
would  also  make  errors  in  my  spelling  and  reading 
to  have  the  pleasure  of  being  chided  in  her  modu 
lated  voice. 

My  course  of  education  had  now  run  on  for 
months  and  the  beginning  of  winter  gave  us  the 
chance  to  elaborate  it.  The  free  lectures  of  the  Board 
of  Education  were  a  boon  quickly  taken  advantage 
of  by  us.  Almost  every  night  we  went  to  Cooper 
Union  or  some  public  school  where  an  interesting 
lecture  was  announced.  To  be  sure  I  was  not  at 
first  a  howling  success  as  an  attendant.  I  could 
stand  the  illustrated  lectures,  but  astronomy  and 
political  economy  without  pictures  always  produced 
the  lullaby  effect  on  me,  and  I  was  often  on  the  verge 
of  snoring.  All  this  disappointed  my  professor,  but 
did  not  discourage  her. 

Summer  came  and  my  knowledge  of  botany  was 
destined  to  be  enriched.  Strange  are  the  paradoxes 
244 


A  Kindergarten  of  One. 

of  fate.  No  class  loves  flowers  as  much  as  the 
poor,  and  no  class  has  less  of  them  than  they.  Ah, 
it  is  pitiful,  I  tell  you,  to  wander  through  the  streets 
inhabited  by  my  people,  and  to  see  never  a  patch  of 
green,  a  fragrant  oasis,  in  this  stretch  of  barren, 
joyless  materialism.  There  is  no  time  there  for 
flowers,  where  even  the  cabbages  in  front  of  the 
dingy  grocery  stores  look  withered  and  seared,  and 
where  there  is  no  other  watchword  than,  "Work, 
work,  or  we  will  be  homeless  and  starving."  That 
one  thought  rules  the  brains  of  my  fellows  with  an 
iron  grasp.  With  the  close  of  their  daily  toil  their 
day's  worry  is  not  over.  Listen  to  the  talks  on  the 
stoops  and  in  the  doorways  of  the  tenements  and  you 
will  be  the  witness  of  much  fretting.  Often  all  this 
mind's  botheration  is  not  necessary.  There  is  no 
actual  want,  no  threatening  danger  of  it.  Yet,  the 
poor  find  a  gruesome  pleasure  in  dwelling  in  the 
midst  of  their  horrors,  and  the  roll  of  their  organ  of 
misery  churns  along  on  an  endless  chain. 

And  I  believe  that  this  is  so  because  the  child  life 
of  the  East  Side  is  dwarfed  and  deprived  of  all  that 
is  dear  to  a  child's  natural  desires.  Every  year 
brings  improvements.  Men  and  women  with  hearts 
of  gold  are  working  like  Trojans  among  the  children 
of  the  poor,  and  the  harder  they  work  the  more  are 
they  appreciated  by  their  charges.  I  cannot  rid  my- 

345 


My  Mamie  Rose. 

self  of  the  opinion  that  in  the  aiding  of  the  children 
lies  the  only  solution  of  our  social  troubles.  Teach 
them  to  be  natural — a  difficult  feat,  to  swing  them 
selves  above  their  level  in  intellect  and  not  by  imi 
tating  the  modes  and  fashions  of  the  idle  rich  in  the 
shoddy  fabrics  offered  to  them  by  unscrupulous 
dealers,  and  we  will  have  advanced  miles  nearer 
to  the  goal  which  is  desired  by  all  who  love  their 
fellow  men,  not  with  mushy  sentiment,  but  with 
intelligence. 

Still,  in  spite  of  all  that  is  done,  the  yearning  look 
in  the  eyes  of  the  children  is  still  there,  and  I  would 
not  care  to  have  the  heart  of  the  man  who  can  see 
the  unspoken  wish  in  the  childish  gaze  when  be 
holding  a  flower,  no  matter  how  scraggy,  and  then 
laugh  at  it  as  at  a  freak  of  humor. 

My  acquaintance  with  the  denizens  of  the  kingdom 
of  flowers  was  exceedingly  limited.  My  teacher 
had  noticed  this  and  forthwith  set  to  work  to  remedy 
this  other  defect  in  my  education. 

As  early  as  May  did  we  begin  our  out-of-door 
course.  We  did  it  by  means  of  excursions.  I  did 
not  care  to  have  this  arrangement  all  one-sided  and 
we  agreed  to  change  off  in  the  management  of  our 
personally  conducted  tours.  We  both  had  to  work 
during  the  week  and  could  only  indulge  in  our  ex 
cursions  on  Sundays.  So,  on  one  outing  she  would 

246 


A  Kindergarten  of  One. 

be  the  supreme  director  and  dictator;   I,  on  the 
next. 

Candor  compels  me  to  confess  that  my  outings 
always  led  us  dangerously  near  to  Coney  Island,  if 
not  quite  to  it,  yet,  people  can  enjoy  themselves  even 
there,  for  it  is  the  same  old  ocean,  and  the  same 
sea  air  there  as  elsewhere,  and  it  only  lies  with  the 
visitor  how  to  spend  the  holiday. 

On  her  Sundays  I  was  always  kept  in  the  dark  as 
to  our  destination  until  we  reached  it.  It  invariably 
proved  to  be  some  quiet  country  place,  with  nooks 
and  brooks  and  all  the  charming  props  which  set 
the  stage  of  nature  with  tranquil  loveliness.  After 
depositing  the  luncheon  in  some  shady  spot,  the 
professor  would  trip  from  flower  to  flower,  from 
tree  to  tree,  and  deliver  little  sermons  on  birds, 
flowers  and  minerals.  There  is  no  schoolroom  like 
God's  own  nature,  and  in  a  way  which  I  cannot 
describe  to  you,  I  learned  that  there  was  a  life 
abounding  in  purity,  in  the  understanding  of  things, 
and  based  in  the  wisdom  of  a  wise  Father.  Step  by 
step  my  faithful  teacher  led  me  on,  until  there  was 
no  doubt  travailing  me,  until  I  could  stand  in  street, 
or  field,  or  forest,  and  feel  my  soul,  my  own  undying 
soul. 

There  never  were  other  days  like  these  and, 
surely,  there  never  will  be  again. 

247 


My  Mamie  Rose. 

We  had  then  known  one  another  for  a  long  time. 
I  had  become  capable  of  reasoning,  and  had  grave 
cause  for  doing  so.  Was  it  all  for  the  best?  Will 
it  surprise  you  to  know  that  constant  companionship 
with  my  mentor  had  awakened  in  me  thoughts  very 
foreign  to  grammar  and  arithmetic? 

I  loved  her.  I  knew  it,  but  I  also  felt  that  that 
love  was  doomed  to  be  buried  unsatisfied.  A  cat 
may  look  at  a  queen,  but  that  is  about  all  a  cat  may 
presume  to  do. 

That  is  what  my  reason  told  me,  but  in  my  heart 
there  echoed  a  stirring  hymn  of  fondest  hope.  It 
would  not  let  me  rest,  and  I  became  a  pestering 
nuisance  to  my  teacher.  Many  times  daily  would  I 
ask  her  the  questions,  "Why,  why  do  you  undergo 
this  ceaseless  labor — why  do  you  set  yourself  this 
gigantic  task  of  making  of  me  a  man?" 

As  in  all  other  matters,  I  was  rough  and  uncouth 
in  my  annoying  questioning,  and  an  answer  to  it 
was  long  refused.  But  my  bulldog  tenacity  came 
to  my  aid  and  I  would  not  let  go.  Determination 
will  overcome  a  good  many  things,  and  surely  a 
little  school  teacher.  I  need  not  tell  you  how  it  hap 
pened — you  either  know,  or  will  know  it  yourself — 
but  one  day  we  understood  the  question  and  the 
answer. 

Then  life  for  us  became  a  blessed  thing  indeed. 
248 


A  Kindergarten  of  One. 

For  the  first  time  in  my  life  I  was  supremely  happy. 
I  cannot  tell  you  how  my  little  girl  felt,  but  can  give 
a  very  strong  guess  at  it,  for  my  sweetheart  never 
wavered,  never  failed  me,  and  was  my  very  own 
until  the  very  last. 

My  Mamie  Rose,  my  bride,  my  dearest  friend,  my 
all. 

It  took  me  a  long  time  to  fully  grasp  that  she  had 
really  said  "Yes,"  to  the  ever-important  question, 
but,  as  soon  as  I  was  quite  sure  of  it,  I  assumed  the 
grand  airs  of  proprietorship  new  swains  usually 
assume. 

First  of  all  I  exerted  my  prerogative  of  calling 
her  by  her  first  name. 

Although  long  under  her  tutelage  and  exposed  to 
her  refining  influence,  I  was  by  no  means,  very 
polished,  and  still  harbored  many  prejudices  against 
customs  and  usages  not  common  to  the  social  shift 
from  which  I  had  sprung.  The  nomenclature  of 
my  people  is  very  limited.  Only  a  very  small  choice 
of  male  and  female  baptismal  names  is  resorted  to 
by  tenement  house  folk.  John,  James,  Michael, 
Patrick,  Henry,  George,  Charles  are  the  most  used 
male  names;  Maggie,  Sadie,  Susie,  Lizzie,  Nellie 
and  Mamie  are  the  favorite  female  names,  or,  at 
least,  the  favorite  abbreviations  of  the  names. 

The  name,  Marie  R.  Deering,  sounded  a  trifle  too 
249 


My  Mamie  Rose. 

fashionable,  too  "toney,"  to  me,  and  I  proceeded 
to  acclimatize  •*:. 

"Mamie"  :c  the  abbreviation  or  substitute  for 
"Marie,"  so  my  little  girl  was  immediately  dubbed 
"Mamie." 

The  "R." — the  initial  of  her  middle  name,  stood 
for  Rosetta,  and  it  was  decidedly  against  the  code 
of  ethics  of  the  Fourth  Ward  for  any  one  to  be 
burdened  by  such  an  enormity.  Again  I  officiated 
at  the  imaginary  baptismal  font,  and  "Rosetta"  be 
came  a  plain  "Rose,"  sweet  to  me  as  no  other. 

Let  no  one  think  for  a  moment  that  my  changing 
of  names  was  accomplished  without  opposition.  Be 
sides  other  things,  little  people  also  possess  the 
virtue  of  stubbornness,  and  many  were  the  argu 
ments  pro  and  con.  I  was  told  with  most  charming 
emphasis  that  I  could  shout  "Mamie  Rose"  to  the 
winds,  but  that  she,  Marie  R.  Deering,  would  never 
— no,  never — answer  to  that  name.  But,  you  know 
the  old  saying  about  many  little  drops  of  water 
penetrating  the  surface  of  the  hardest  stone,  and  the 
same  was  true  in  this  case.  Also,  it  should  not  be 
forgotten  that  she,  my  Mamie  Rose,  was  of  English 
descent,  I  was  of. Irish  stock,  and  it  is  in  Ireland 
where  the  Blarney  stone  is,  which  same  instils  a 
wonderful  magic  in  the  love-making  of  every  de 
scendant  of  good  Erin's  folk. 
250 


A  Kindergarten  of  One. 

We  had  barely  sealed  the  compact  of  our  love 
when  I  received  a  fearful  shock.  My  Mamie  Rose 
wanted  me  to  inform  her  mother  concerning  what 
had  happened. 

Mrs.  Deering  and  myself  had  become  very  good 
friends.  On  several  occasions  she  had  even  been 
my  fellow-conspirator,  by  helping  me  to  solve  some 
weird  puzzles  in  multiplication,  imposed  on  me  by 
her  daughter.  I  had  often  sat  at  her  table  and  had 
spent  many  hours,  made  pleasant  by  her,  in  the  cosy 
home.  However,  all  this  did  not  seem  sufficient  to 
screw  my  courage  up  to  the  required  pitch.  Many 
particularly  ticklish  situations  in  my  past  life  had 
been  met  by  me  without  flinching,  but  I  actually 
trembled  when  I  was  obliged  to  face  this  sweet  lady 
with  my  portentous  information  and  request. 

If  I  had  trembled  with  fear  before  telling  her,  I 
trembled  with  joy  after  it. 

I  could  hardly  believe  my  senses  when  I  did  not 
hear  one  word  of  regret  or  reproach  from  her  lips. 
And  when  she  said  quietly,  and,  therefore,  most 
impressively :  "I  have  no  fear  for  Marie's  future," 
I  became  her  bonded  slave  right  on  the  spot,  and 
hold  myself  in  bondage  to  her  to  this  very  day. 

Richard,  my  brave,  crippled  Dick — my  "other" 
pal — was  most  effusive  in  his  congratulations,  but, 


My  Mamie  Rose. 

he  admitted  to  me  his  was  a  selfish  reason,  for  now 

I  was  his  big  brother  in  "dead  earnest." 

Naturally,  all  this  gave  me  an  increased  impetus 
to  earn  more  money,  and  I  put  so  much  zeal  into 
my  work  that  my  wages  were  several  times  in 
creased.  Nevertheless,  I  was  still  nothing  more  or 
less  than  a  "baggage  smasher."  However,  all  of  it, 
courtship  and  the  rest,  was  so  entirely  out  of  the 
ordinary  that  a  little  thing  like  this  did  not  cause  us 
any  worry.  And  if  one  happens  to  be  a  "baggage- 
smasher,"  it  does  not  follow  that  one  must  always 
remain  one.  Besides,  the  queen  did  not  mind  it, 
and  as  to  thr  cat,  well — there  is  no  use  in  talking 
to  you  if  you  cannot  imagine  what  the  cat  thought 
about  it. 


AMBASSADOR  BILL 


CHAPTER  XVI. 

AMBASSADOR      BILL. 

ONE  who  has  been  somewhat  neglected  in  the  few 
preceding  pages  is  my  old  pal,  my  Bill.  His  soul, 
heart,  instinct,  call  it  what  you  will,  was  under 
going  severe  trials. 

Mamie  Rose  was  the  cause  of  it. 

Wfth  her  coming  into  our  lives,  she  sowed  the 
seed  of  jealousy  between  me  and  Bill. 

Bill  found  a  new  joy  in  trotting  beside  my  teacher 
at  times  when  he  should  have  been  at  my  side.  He 
seemed  the  proudest  dog  in  all  the  world  and  hardly 
deigned  to  notice  me. 

This  I  resented. 

On  the  other  hand,  at  times  when  Mamie  Rose 
and  I  would  sit  close  together,  Bill  could  not  rest 
until,  with  all  his  mighty  prowess,  he  had  squirmed 
himself  between  us. 

For  a  long  time  he  did  not  know  whom  of  his 
two  friends  he  should  love  the  best.  But,  with  com 
ing  weeks  and  months,  he  decided  to  share  his  affec- 
255 


My  Mamie  Rose. 

tion  evenly,  and  then  we  understood  one  another's 
feelings  and  respected  our  relative  positions. 

Would  that  I  could  take  a  peep  into  Bill's  doggish 
brain  and  read  the  memory  of  those  heavenly  days ! 

A  man  who  is  born  to  coarseness  and  brutality 
will  sometimes  lose  control  of  his  acquired  attain 
ments.  There  came  a  day,  long  forgiven  and  for 
gotten  by  her,  but  not  yet  sufficiently  atoned  by  me, 
when  I  permitted  the  subdued  brute  within  me  to 
assert  itself  for  one  brief  moment.  I  saw  imme 
diately  what  I  had  done,  and  realized  that  my  rowdy 
ism  could  not  be  forgiven. 

Then  was  a  lapse  in  deepest  shadows.  Regrets, 
reproaches,  self-accusations — what  good  were  they? 
They  could  not  lead  me  back  to  paradise.  The  room 
became  a  place  of  silent  brooding,  and  not  as  regu 
larly  shared  by  Bill  as  formerly.  Bill  had  taken  no 
part  in  our  estrangement.  Emotional  dog  as  he 
wais,  he  never  forgot  to  take  care  of  the  inner  dog 
whenever  an  opportunity  presented  itself.  From 
the  very  beginning  he  had  industriously  cultivated 
the  acquaintance  of  my  little  girl's  mother.  First, 
becomingly  modest,  he  had,  in  the  course  of  time, 
insisted  on  being  a  regular  guest  at  the  dinner-table. 
I  meant  to  break  him  of  this  habit,  but  the  mother 
told  me  in  confidence  that  Bill  had  whispered  to 
her,  quite  plainly:  "I  think  you  are  the  very  best 
256 


Ambassador  Bill. 

cook  in  the  world."     Few  women  can  resist  such 
a  compliment. 

For  two  long  days  I  had  not  seen  her — had  not 
heard  her  voice.  She  lived  just  around  the  corner, 
and,  from  the  window  of  my  tenement,  I  could  see 
the  walls  that  sheltered  my  treasure,  that  I  thought 
forever  lost.  I  sat  and  sat  and  stared  at  the  cruel 
bricks  that  seemed  to  cry,  "Halt!"  Small  wonder 
that  the  lesser  things  of  life  had  lost  their  importance 
to  me !  Even  Bill  had,  for  the  nonce,  but  little  space 
in  my  thoughts ;  but  he  lost  no  time  in  bringing  him 
self  most  forcibly  to  my  notice. 

I  was  at  the  window,  and  the  door  was  slightly 
ajar.  All  was  quiet,  very  quiet,  until  a  slow  patter 
on  the  stairs  told  of  my  partner's  home-coming. 
My  most  casual  glance  was  his  share  on  entering 
the  room.  He  was  very  anxious  to  avail  himself 
of  this,  and  made  quickly  for  the. sheltering  shadows 
under  the  bed.  But  my  careless  glance  had  quickly 
changed  to  one  of  concern  on  beholding  him,  and, 
after  much  coaxing,  he  crawled  out  to  face  me. 

My  valiant  knight  had  met  his  conqueror.  The 
hero  of  many  a  battle  sat  wounded  and  bandaged 
before  me.  His  left  eye  was  swathed  in  linen.  He 
tried  to  pass  over  the  matter  lightly ;  he  wagged  his 
tail,  but  only  once,  for  that,  too,  was  bandaged. 
Then  he  threw  himself  on  my  mercy. 
257 


My  Mamie  Rose. 

It  behooved  me,  as  his  partner,  to  investigate 
the  extent  of  the  damage,  and  I  carefully  untied 
the  bandage  that  covered  his  eye.  It  was  only  a 
trifling  scratch,  suspiciously  like  one  made  by  a 
cat.  I  also  noticed  that  his  badge  of  honor — his 
collar — was  missing.  On  the  point  of  throwing 
aside  the  bandage,  a  handkerchief,  my  eye  fell 
on  a  well-known  monogram  in  its  corner,  and — I 
cannot  exactly  recall  how  it  happened — but,  in 
the  very  next  minute,  my  Bill  and  I  were  descend 
ing  the  rickety  stairs,  two  steps  at  a  time. 

Just  as  we  turned  the  corner,  a  belligerent-looking 
tabby  made  herself  exceedingly  conspicuous.  Some 
how,  Bill  found  the  other  side  of  the  street  prefer 
able.  At  her  door  he  joined  me  again,  and  my 
queen's  ambassador  led  the  way  upstairs. 

There  I  stood  before  her,  and  stammered  uncouth 
phrases  of  apology.  I  mentioned  Bill's  collar.  A 
dainty  hand  took  it  from  the  mantel  and  handed  it 
to  me ;  our  fingers  met  and — all  the  world  was  sing 
ing  again  the  sweet  refrain  which  for  days  had  been 
silent.  The  impudence  of  that  dog  beggars  all  de 
scription.  He  had  the  unblushing  nerve  to  claim 
all  the  credit  for  having  brought  love's  jangle  into 
tune  again,  and,  in  his  excitement,  rapped  his  dam 
aged  caudal  appendage  three  times  on  the  floor  be 
fore  he  tried  to  bite  it. 

Then  ^ur  happiness  began  once  more. 
258 


MY  DEBUT  IN  SOCIETY 


CHAPTER  XVII. 

MY   DEBUT    IN    SOCIETY. 

HAD  our  future  plans  depended  on  my  inclina 
tions,  or  rather  my  impulses,  our  wedding  would 
have  taken  place  very  soon  after  our  engagement. 
All  I  deemed  necessary  to  insure  our  future  happi 
ness  was  our  love.  All  else  was  of  no  importance. 
Now  I  know  that  her  judgment  was  the  better. 

I  had  sense  enough  to  admit  her  wisdom.  I  was 
still  very  much  entangled  in  the  forest  of  ignorance. 
It  could  not  have  been  right  for  me  to  force  myself 
on  her,  refined  and  cultured  as  she  was — until,  at 
least  approximately  I  was  on  the  same  level.  I  had 
still  much,  very  much,  to  learn  before  considering 
myself  capable  to  class  myself  with  the  non-illiterate. 
There  were  years  of  study  before  me,  yet,  with  such 
a  prize  dancing  before  me,  I  threw  myself  into  my 
task  with  true  enthusiasm. 

So,  though  I  often  grumbled  at  my  fate,  I  fully 
understood  that  it  would  be  many  moons  before  I 
261 


My  Mamie  Rose. 

could  justly  say  to  my  Mamie  Rose:  "Now  I  am 
ready." 

We  were  both  human.  Sometimes,  perhaps,  in  the 
hour  when  the  homing  of  the  sun  had  come  and 
when  the  golden  wings  were  folded  for  the  rest 
of  one  more  night,  we,  Mamie  Rose  and  I,  in  field 
or  rural  quiet,  felt  the  intoned,  unison  song  of  our 
hearts,  which  sung  to  us  that  we  were  one,  a  unit, 
and  not  two  different  personalities,  and  then  we  often 
came  very  near  to  throwing  aside  all  previous 
sagacious  resolves  and  felt  ourselves  fired  by  the 
desire  to  end  to-morrow  this  two-fold  existence. 
These  periods  never  lasted  long.  The  morrow  came 
awd  whispered :  "Fools,"  and  we  forgot  the  swerv 
ing  from  our  intentions,  in  hard  work. 

Since  that  time  I  have  had  many  days  of  very 
hard  labor,  but  I  never  worked  as  I  did  then.  Cor 
porations  are  not  in  the  habit  of  paying  liberal  sal 
aries  unless  every  cent  of  them  is  earned  by  the 
sweat  of  your  brow.  For  one  in  my  humble  position 
I  was  receiving  exceedingly  high  wages — and,  to 
be  candid,  I  had  to  earn  them  by  my  sweat.  Often 
I  was  given  an  opportunity  to  work  "over  time"  at 
extra  pay.  It  was  always  welcome,  because  it  meant 
so  much  more  added  to  my  deposit  in  the  Savings 
Bank,  but  it  simply  "played  me  out." 

From  the  pier  I  would  hurry  to  Mamie  Rose's 
962 


My  Debut  in  Society. 

house  to  report  or  to  receive  a  lesson,  although, 
sometimes,  besides  the  lessons,  other  things  were 
discussed.  Then  home  and  to  other  work. 

I  had  left  the  attic  and  had  taken  a  room,  from 
where  I  could  see  Mamie  Rose's  roof.  Arrived  in  the 
room,  Bill  would  be  given  his  walk  and  dinner,  and 
then  would  be  permitted  to  watch  his  master  "mak 
ing  himself  educated."  The  Standard  Oil  Company 
really  ought  to  give  me  a  discount.  I  was  a  good 
customer,  yet  received  not  all  the  benefit  possible 
from  the  oil.  My  midnight  oil  often  burned  away 
into  morning  to  no  better  purpose  than  to  throw 
shadows  of  the  sleeping  student  and  his  dog. 

I  blush  with  deep  shame  while  making  this  con 
fession;  I  invariably  fell  asleep  over  Ralph  Waldo 
Emerson,  while  I  had  no  trouble  in  keeping 
awake  with  Alexandre  Dumas.  It  is  not  intended 
as  a  criticism  of  Emerson,  although  he  could  well 
afford  to  be  criticised  by  me,  but,  generally  speak 
ing,  it  seems  to  one  as  unformed  as  myself,  as  if 
the  truths  of  life,  of  thought,  of  science  come  to 
us  always  on  stilts.  I  have  not  been  able  to  learn 
very  much  from  present  day  novels,  and  am,  and 
always  will  be,  compelled  to  fall  back  on  old  friends 
to  supply  me  with  the  scaffolding  for  the  rather 
meagre  structure  of  my  education.  But,  in  spite 


My  Mamie  Rose. 

of  loving  them  dearly,  I  often  wish  they  were  better 
adapted  to  my  understanding. 

So,  with  books  and  work  and  sweet  intercourse 
with  her  whom  I  loved,  time  marched  along  with 
never-halting  step  and  was  recorded  by  me  with 
most  exact  care.  My  calendars  were  model  chron 
icles  of  time,  and  often  did  I  wish  they  were  practi 
cal  statesmen,  so  that,  by  the  usual  means,  they 
could  be  speeded. 

With  one  exception  nothing  occurred  to  change 
the  even  tenor  of  our  lives.  That  one  exception  has, 
to  this  very  day  left  a  peculiarly  bitter  taste  in  my 
mouth.  I  admit  I  am  biased  in  the  matter,  still,  1 
can  be  truthful,  and  so,  that  I  may  be  better  under 
stood,  the  episode  will  be  related  here. 

Late  one  Saturday  night,  I  had  occasion  to  call 
on  one  of  my  former  pals,  who  was  lying  ill  on  a 
cot  in  a  lodging  house  near  Chinatown.  On  my  way 
home,  I  passed  the  entrance  to  Chinatown — Pell 
street,  beginning  at  the  Bowery.  I  had  just  greeted 
a  few  of  the  men  loafing  about  the  front  of  Barney 
Flynn's  place — the  palace  of  the  King  of  the  Bowery 
— when  I  was  hailed  by  some  one. 

I  looked  around  and  saw  a  party  of  sightseers 

coming  in  my  direction.  I  had  no  more  to  do  with 

that  sort  of  business  and  intended  to  proceed  on  my 

way  without   paying  any   attention   to  them,   but 

264 


My  Debut  in  Society. 

was  called  by  name  by  one  of  them,  whose  voice 
was  familiar  to  me. 

"What  do  you  want?"  I  asked,  and  halted. 

"What's  the  matter,  Kil?  Don't  you  remember 
your  friends  any  more?" 

I  looked  at  the  speaker  and  knew  him  again  as  one 
of  my  former  pupils  in  the  physical  culture  line. 
To  mention  his  name  will  do  no  good  and  I  will 
only  say  that  he  had  been  my  favorite  pupil  and  that 
I  had  believed  a  mutual  liking  existed  between  us. 
To  prevent  error,  let  me  say  that  he  had  not  been 
my  patient,  being  neither  too  fat  nor  too  lean,  but 
had  only  taken  a  course  in  boxing  to  learn  the 
manly  art  of  self-defense.  I  had  never  seen  him 
since  the  closing  of  my  physical  culture  system  and 
was  overjoyed  at  this  unexpected  meeting. 

He  insisted  that,  for  this  one  time  only,  and  to 
oblige  him,  I  should  take  him  and  the  party  of  his 
friends  through  Chinatown  and  show  them  the  most 
interesting  sight-places.  His  friends  were  all  from 
out  of  town,  seemed  to  be  more  serious  than  the 
average  sightseer,  and  were  so  strong  in  their  per 
suasion  that  I  could  not  refuse  to  act  as  their  guide. 

During  our  journey  along  the  old  scenes  of  my 

former  days,  my  ex-pupil  inquired  into  my  present 

welfare  and  was  very  glad  to  hear  I  was  getting 

along  by  other  ways  than  those  formerly  employed 

265 


My  Mamie  Rose. 

by  me.  Shortly  before  I  parted  from  him,  he  told 
me  that  he  had  taken  very  little  exercise  of  late  and 
wanted  me  to  box  with  him  occasionally.  I  laughed 
at  his  proposition,  told  him  that  I  considered  myself 
retired  for  good,  but  did  not  think  it  advisable  to 
tell  him  the  true  reason  for  my  refusal.  He  kept 
on  increasing  the  terms  he  was  willing  to  pay  me. 
I  could  not  help  thinking  how  the  additional  income 
would  increase  my  deposit,  thereby  bringing  me 
closer  to  the  realization  of  my  fondest  dream,  and, 
after  some  reflection,  I  agreed  to  call  on  him  twice 
a  week  in  the  evening  to  "don  the  mitts"  with  him. 

I  had  called  on  him  several  times  before  I  told 
him  how  completely  my  life  had  been  changed.  In 
this  Mamie  Rose  was  not  left  out,  and,  you  can 
rest  assured,  my  accounts  of  her  sweetness,  devo 
tion  and  beauty  were  given  in  the  most  glowing 
colors.  My  regard  for  this  man  was  sincere  and  I 
supposed  that  all  I  told  him  was  received  in  the 
proper  spirit.  I  am  not  garrulous,  but  when  it  came 
to  talking  about  my  Mamie  Rose,  I  knew  no  limits. 
My  heart  simply  glowed  with  love,  and  I  never  grew 
tired  to  praise  her,  who  was  the  truest  and  best. 

My  man  never  omitted  to  inquire  after  her  and 
even  sent  her  a  few  presents  through  me.  Mamie 
Rose  warned  me  against  this,  but  the  things  were 


266 


My  Debut  in  Society. 

beyond  my  means  and  added  to  her  charm,  and  I 
would  not  listen  to  her. 

At  the  end  of  one  of  our  sessions,  my  ex-pupil 
extended  an  invitation  to  me.  He  had  told  his 
mother  about  me  and  she  was  very  anxious  to  know 
me.  At  a  certain  date  I  was  expected  to  call  at 
his  mother's  residence — he,  himself,  lived  in  bachelor 
quarters — to  meet  a  few  friends  there. 

In  this  invitation  Mamie  Rose  was  also  included. 

I  was  bubbling  over  with  excitement  when  tell 
ing  her  about  the  honor  fallen  to  us.  The  quiet  way 
in  which  she  received  my  news  disappointed  me. 

"Aren't  you  glad?"  I  asked.  "Doesn't  this  prove 
that  my  friend  is  of  the  right  calibre  and  wishes 
to  honor  both  you  and  me  by  this  invitation  to  his 
mother's  house?" 

"I  wish  I  could  feel  quite  sure  on  that  point." 
said  my  little  adviser,  "but  I  am  afraid  that  this 
invitation  instead  of  bringing  us  pleasure,  will  bring 
just  the  opposite." 

"Oh,  girl  o'  mine,"  I  coaxed,  "I  know  this  fellow 
and  you  don't.  He  is  as  good  as  gold  and  you  may 
believe  me  that  the  invitation  was  extended  in  good 
faith." 

I  prevailed,  and,  on  the  appointed  day,  we  invaded 
the  most  fashionable  quarters  of  the  city  to  enjoy 
the  hospitality  of  our  friends,  the  swells. 
267 


My  Mamie  Rose. 

After  we  had  passed  the  scrutiny  of  the  man  at 
the  door,  who  had  evidently  been  told  of  our  coming, 
we  were  ushered  into  a  drawing  room.  The  only 
one  I  knew  among  the  people  was  my  ex-pupil, 
who  quickly  came  forward  to  greet  us  and,  then,  to 
introduce  us. 

In  spite  of  my  lack  of  familiarity  with  the  customs 
of  the  upper  classes,  I  saw  at  a  glance  that  the 
crowd  had  been  expectant  and  was  now  disap 
pointed. 

To  explain  this  disappointment,  I  should  mention 
that  my  wearing  apparel  consisted  of  a  black  suit 
of  good  material  and  workmanship.  My  necktie 
was  not  colored  in  imitation  of  the  rainbow  and  I 
had  no  occasion  to  look  for  a  convenient  spot  for 
my  expectorations.  To  carry  the  disappointment 
further,  I  acted  contrarily  to  expectations  at  the 
dinner  table.  I  neglected  to  carry  the  food  to  my 
mouth  at  the  point  of  my  knife  and  forgot  to  dip 
my  finger  into  the  salt-cellar. 

My  Mamie  Rose  was,  as  always,  becom  ngly 
and  properly  gowned,  and  carried  herself  with  a 
tact  which  fortified  me  against  giving  full  reins  to 
my  temper. 

Before  entering  the  dining-room,  the  two  freaks 
from  the  Bowery  were  made  the  centre  of  much  curi 
osity.  The  men  got  around  me,  expecting  to  hear 
a68 


My  Debut  in  Society. 

choice  stories  of  a  certain  kind,  which  contrary  to 
accepted  ideas,  are  not  original  in  the  Bowery,  but 
are  brought  there  by  these  pioneers  of  refined  civili 
zation.  Their  faces  fell  when  I  proved  a  decided 
failure  at  that  sort  of  story-telling. 

While  in  their  midst,  I  did  not  forget  Mamie 
Rose,  who  was  the  centre  of  the  female  freak- 
hunters.  I  compared  her  poise,  her  naturalness, 
to  the  artificial  sprightliness  of  the  society  ladies, 
and  found  it  so  admirable  and  sufficient,  that  I 
could  well  afford  to  laugh  at  the  winks  and  sneers 
exchanged  behind  her  back. 

One  old  woman,  who  with  her  gray  hair,  made 
a  reverential  picture  of  old  age,  deliberately  sur 
veyed  my  Mamie  Rose  through  her  lorgnette,  as 
if  the  sweetest  girl  there  or  elsewhere  were  an  es 
caped  beast  from  the  jungle.  I  could  not  bear  this 
and  started  toward  my  girl.  But  she  felt  my  com 
ing,  turned  to  me  and  showed  in  her  eye  the  com 
petency  to  withstand  the  illy  veiled  sneers  and  in 
sults  of  that  horde  of  her  sisters. 

A  few  minutes  before  dinner  was  announced,  I 
had  an  opportunity  to  entreat  Mamie  Rose  to  have 
us  leave. 

"I  did  not  want  to  come,  but  now  we  are  here 
and  here  we  stay,"  was  her  spirited  dictum. 

The  ceremonial  style  of  the  meal  and  the  con- 
269 


My  Mamie  Rose. 

versation  during  it  impressed  me  very  little.  The 
emptiness,  the  superficiality  and  the  desire  to  "show 
off"  was  too  palpable.  I  had  not  then — or  now — 
reached  that  altitude  of  social  perfection  to  make  a 
meal  the  most  important  function  of  my  day's  work. 

After  we,  the  gentlemen,  (I  am  afraid  I  was  not 
included),  had  had  our  smoke  and  bout  with  the  de 
canters,  we  joined  the  ladies  in  the  drawing  room. 
One  of  them  had  evidently  been  "laying  for  me," 
and  captured  me  as  soon  as  I  entered.  I  was  led 
to  a  settee  and  there  we  had  a  very,  very  serioue 
talk. 

She  asked  me  this  and  she  asked  me  that;  if  the 
dives  were  really  as  horrible  as  pictured;  if  it  was 
quite  safe  to  visit  them;  if  I  would  consent  to  act 
as  guide,  for  a  generous  compensation ;  if  I  had  ever 
witnessed  any  "interesting"  scenes  down  on  the 
Bowery;  and — spare  me  telling  the  rest. 

My  answers  were  not  what  were  desired  and, 
at  last,  I  had  a  sample  of  frank  truthfulness. 

"Do  you  know,  Mr.  Kildare,"  said  my  resplendent 
companion,  "you  are  a  decided  disappointment  as 
a  Bowery  type,  and  not  at  all  the  entertaining  chap 
we  had  been  led  to  believe  you  to  be." 

"I  am  sure  that  is  more  the  fault  of  time  than  of 
me,"  I  replied.  "Years  often  make  us  lose  our  en 
tertaining  qualities  and,  also,  our  attractiveness." 
270 


My  Debut  in  Society. 

Our  serious  talk  ended  with  this,  still,  she  was  a 
surprisingly  well  made-up  woman. 

At  last  the  time  for  our  departure  came  and  I 
said  my  adieus.  Our  visit  having  proved  more  or 
less  of  a  fiasco,  one  of  the  more  intimate  friends 
of  the  family  chose  this  moment  to  make  an  attempt 
to  save  the  "entertainment"  from  becoming  an  ab 
solute  fizzle. 

"I  say,  Kildare,"  began  this  worthy  young  man, 
who  was  doubtless  unacquainted  with  my  past  per 
formances  in  the  exhibition  of  my  temper,  "you've 
been  in  society  now,  and  it  would  be  very  appropri 
ate  if  you  were  to  tell  us  your  impressions  in  your 
own  language — mind  you,  in  your  own  language." 

For  once  the  pleading  in  the  eye  of  my  Mamie 
Rose  was  of  no  avail,  and  I  started  to  give  my  im 
pressions  in  "my  own  language,"  which  proved 
sufficient,  and  did  not  oblige  me  to  borrow  the 
language  of  anybody  else.  My  heart  was  soured. 
I  did  not  care  a  snap  of  my  fingers  for  the  opinion 
of  these  people.  To  them  I  was  a  freak.  What 
they  were,  what  they  are  to  me,  need  not  be 
written  here.  I  could  have  laughed  at  it  all  and 
would  have  been  the  only  one  really  enter 
tained.  But  to  think  that  those  people,  purse  and 
caste-proud,  should  include  my  Mamie  Rose  in  their 
apart,  made  my  blood  run  like  boiling  lava. 


My  Mamie  Rose. 

How  far  I  might  have  gone  in  my  outburst  I 
cannot  say.  The  same  little  hand,  which  had  always 
been  my  guide,  touched  my  arm,  and  I  followed  her 
out  into  the  hall. 

Before  we  departed,  mother  and  son  came  to  us 
with  their  sincere  apologies.  They  were  sincere, 
we  felt  that  and  accepted  them.  The  son  accused 
himself  of  having  misunderstood  the  situation,  in 
which  I  agreed  with  him.  We  were  most  graciously 
invited  to  dine  with  them  "en  famille,"  a  few  days 
hence,  but  while  we  left  in  the  best  understanding, 
the  invitation  was  thankfully  declined. 

Again  out  in  the  air,  under  God's  own  heaven, 
we  walked  along  silently  for  quite  a  while.  My, 
but  I  felt  ashamed,  and  was  ready  to  hear  with  per 
fect  composure  my  Mamie  Rose's  "I  told  you  so." 

But  it  did  not  come,  and  I  began  rehearsing  my 
plea  for  pardon. 

"Girl  o'  mine,"  I  pleaded,  "won't  you  forgive 
me  this  time,  and  I  promise  never " 

Ere  I  could  finish,  my  pardon  came  with  a  silvery 
laugh,  and  the  world  went  very  well  again. 

Less  than  an  hour  after  that,  we  were  without 
the  pale  of  society  and,  strange  though  it  may  seem, 
we  were  perfectly  happy.  My  Mamie  Rose  was 
busy  with  her  school-work,  the  mother  was  taking 
a  well-earned  rest— oerhaps  trying  to  take  a  little 
272 


My  Debut  in  Society. 

nap  in  the  rocker,  and  the  little  fellow  and  I  were 
racing  about  the  place  to  the  tune  of  "The  Rocky 
Road  to  Dublin,"  sung — let  me  call  it  that — by  me 
in  tones  that  shook  the  rafters. 

Within  the  last  twelve  months,  I  have  been  hon 
ored  on  several  occasions  with  invitations  to  func 
tions  of  the  upper  set.  They  were  extended  in  a  dif 
ferent  spirit  than  the  first  one,  still,  I  could  not  see 
my  way  clear  to  accept  them. 

I  want  to  say  most  emphatically  that  I  am  not 
of  anarchistic  or  nihilistic  tendencies.  We  all  have 
our  work  cut  out,  and  my  work  is  not  in  the  direction 
of  stirring  up  emotional  outbursts  of  charity  in  the 
drawing  rooms  of  the  upper  circles. 


THE  JOURNEY  HOME. 


CHAPTER  XVIII. 

THE  JOURNEY  HOME. 

TIME  passed  on,  bringing  with  it  many  of  the 
things  I  was  striving  for.  To  become  a  learned 
man,  a  scientist,  was  never  my  desire,  and,  most 
likely,  would  have  been  an  impossibility  had  I 
desired  it.  What  I  wanted  was  to  be  able  to  under 
stand,  to  acquire  a  fair  amount  of  mental  balance, 
and  then,  to  be  able  to  put  the  acquired  knowledge 
to  the  best  use. 

With  the  changing  of  my  life,  a  changing  of  aims 
had  also  come,  and,  as  in  the  old  life,  I  was  striving 
for  success  in  the  new  life.  The  best  way  to  make 
an  ambition  possible  is  to  make  the  ambition  reason 
able. 

I  was  still  groping  and  groping,  but  thank  God, 
I  was  groping  forward.  From  whatever  darkness 
still  enshrouded  me  I  kept  steadily  emerging  closer 
to  the  light.  I  felt  this  and  it  made  me  feel  that 
my  probation  should  be  ended. 

Success  without  thrift  is  not  well  possible.  My 
»77 


My  Mamie  Rose. 

materla\  advancement  had  continued.  I  had  again 
been  promoted  and  had  soared  way  above  the  lowly 
position  of  a  "baggage-smasher."  My  salary  was 
more  than  ample  for  my  needs,  and  my  deposit 
in  the  savings  bank  had  grown  wondrously. 

Capitalists  are  proverbially  aggressive.  I,  being 
one  of  the  order  acted  accordingly  and  began  to 
force  matters.  Women  like  to  be  coaxed  and  urged, 
and  I  did  my  proper  share  of  it,  because  I  knew 
it  would  result  as  't  did. 

With  the  consent  of  the  mother,  the  date  of  our 
wedding  was  set  for  February. 

Again  another  glorious  period  began. 

It  was  over  two  months  until  the  fixed  date 
on  which  we  were  to  become  man  and  wife,  and  we 
thought  it  necessary  to  inform  ourselves  concerning 
several  practical  details.  As  I  had  now  almost  suc 
ceeded  in  securing  a  mentor  for  life,  we  agreed  to 
suspend  our  evening  lecture  tours,  and  spent  most 
of  our  time  in  wandering  from  store  to  store. 

The  time  for  buying  household  goods  had  not 
yet  come,  but  it  seemed  to  delight  Mamie  Rose  to 
gaze  into  the  shop-windows.  At  times,  we  would 
even  go  so  far  as  to  enter  a  store  and  price  the 
goods.  It  was  then  that  my  admiration  for  my  little 
girl  increased  again. 

I  had  long  ago  recognized  that  of  common  sense 


The  Journey  Home. 

I  had  only  a  very  small  share,  and  it  was  a  splendid 
object-lesson  to  see  my  Mamie  Rose  dealing  with 
the  tradesmen.  Calm  and  collected,  she  would  listen 
to  the  smooth  talk,  and  then  act  according  to  her  own 
judgment,  which  was  always  sound.  I  knew  nothing 
then  of  the  sagacity  of  women  shoppers. 

One  night  I  attempted  to  show  off  a  little  of  my 
business  sagacity.  I  chose  a  bad  subject  to  practice 
on — diamonds.  I  can  still  hear  her  words  ring  in 
my  ears.  How  foolish  it  was  of  poor  people  to 
stint  and  starve  themselves  for  the  sake  of  imitating 
flashy  people  by  wearing  jewels  bought  at  the  ex 
pense  of  something  more  useful.  Diamonds  and 
jewels  were  often  the  means  of  making  the  ignorance 
of  the  wearers  more  conspicuous.  A  woman  who 
wears  jewels  knows  that  she  needs  other  attractions 
than  those  given  to  her  by  nature. 

Right  here  I  got  the  best  of  my  Mamie  Rose. 

"That  may  be  all  true,  but  nevertheless,  I  am  go 
ing  to  buy  you  a  ring,  girl  o'  mine,"  I  said  very 
seriously. 

"No,  you  will  not,  because  you  know  I  do  not 
want  it,  and  it  will  only  offend  me  to  have  you  give 
me  one." 

"What  ?"  I  retorted,  playing  my  part  with  perfec 
tion.  "Won't  you  permit  me  to  buy  you  a  ring  for 
that  day  in  February?" 

279 


My  Mamie  Rose. 

"Oh,  that  is  different,  and — why  are  you  laughing, 
Owen  Kildare?" 

Oh,  girl  o'  mine,  girl  o'  mine,  why  had  it  to  be! 

The  day  was  only  weeks  distant. 
****** 

It  was  in  January,  and  we  were  out  on  one  of 
our  nightly  rambles  in  the  shopping  district.  It  was 
one  of  those  mild  winter  evenings  which  make 
our  climate  so  uneven.  I  was  glad  of  it,  because 
my  Mamie  Rose  was  a  dainty,  delicate  little  crea 
ture,  and  on  cold  evenings  I  was  afraid  that  she 
might  suffer  from  the  weather. 

We  were  looking  at  some  furniture  displayed 
in  a  window,  when  a  shower  fell.  We  were  caught 
right  squarely  in  it.  I  wanted  her  to  seek  refuge 
in  a  store,  or  at  least,  in  a  doorway,  but  we  were 
only  a  short  distance  from  her  home,  and  she  insisted 
on  reaching  it  before  the  shower  turned  into  a 
downpour. 

I  had  a  heavy  overcoat  over  a  stout  suit  of  clothes. 

"Let  me  put,  at  least,  my  overcoat  over  your 
shoulders,"  I  insisted. 

"No,  you  foolish  boy,  no,"  she  laughed  in  an 
swer.  "Why,  we're  only  a  jump  from  home,  and  I 
am  dressed  warm  enough  to  risk  these  few  drops." 

For  once  my   Mamie  Rose  was  wrong  and  it 
was  the  "once"  that  counted. 
•lo 


The  Journey  Home. 

My  misgivings  were  many  when  I  left  her  at 
her  home,  but  she  assured  me  that  she  was  in  no 
danger  of  feeling  the  effects  of  the  dampness. 

I  called  on  the  following  evening. 

She  had  been  in  bed  all  day. 

Of  course  it  was  nothing.  "Just  a  trifling  cold," 
that  was  all — but  the  beginning  of  the  end  had  come. 

She  laughed  at  us  for  our  fears. 

"Why,  I'll  be  up  and  about  the  same  as  ever 
to-morrow." 

To-morrow !  To-morrow  multiplied  into  dread, 
fearsome  weeks.  Yes,  for  weeks  she  painfully 
lingered  on  her  bed,  and  I  marveled  with  awe  at 
the  heroic  spirit  of  my  little  girl. 

The  weakness  increased  until  she  looked  like  a 
dainty  statue  hewn  in  alabaster. 

It  was  only  a  trifle  more  than  a  week  before 
the  date  set  for  our  wedding.  The  physician 
stepped  from  her  bed  and  beckoned  me  to  follow  him 
into  the  next  room. 

You  know  what  he  told  me,  and  you  know  that 
T  did  not  believe  him. 

"The  end  coming?  Pshaw,  what  nonsense!  Was 
there  not  a  loving,  a  merciful  God  above  us?" 

I  could  not  deny  the  evidence  before  me.  She 
was  getting  worse  every  day,  but  I  could  not,  would 


361 


My  Mamie  Rose. 

not,  believe  that,  which  even  her  mother  had  ac 
cepted  with  resignation. 

And  next  week  we  were  to  be  married  I 

Spells  came,  during  which  reason  left  her,  but  in 
all  her  conscious  moments  she  spoke  to  me  with  the 
wisdom  of  another  world,  and  gave  me  then  her 
legacy  of  purest,  Godliest  love. 

Then  came  the  dayl 

The  afternoon  sun  was  low  when  she  asked  me  to 
lift  her  to  the  window.  It  was  a  humble  neighbor 
hood,  devoid  of  all  picturesqueness.  All  we  saw 
in  the  last  sheen  of  the  sun's  departing  rays  was  a 
little  girl  on  the  opposite  sidewalk,  playing  with  a 
kitten.  The  picture  was  very  simple,  but  my  beloved 
one  watched  with  smiling  interest  until  her  tired 
little  head  fell  on  my  shoulder. 

She  was  so  light,  one  did  hardly  know  anything 
was  in  his  arms, .  and  without  disturbing  her  re 
posing  position,  I  carried  her  back  to  her  couch. 
Back  in  her  bed,  we  clasped  hands,  as  foolish  lovers 
will  do,  and,  still  confident,  still  hoping,  lulled  by  the 
quiet  and  her  happy  smile,  I  fell  asleep. 

Suddenly  I  was  awakened. 

Her  hand  was  not  in  mine.  Her  mother,  weep 
ing,  knelt  beside  the  bed. 

"Why ?" 

I  understood,  and  in  that  same  moment  the  edi- 
282 


The  Journey  Home. 

fice  reared  by  her  with  such  infinite  care  shook 
to  its  very  foundations. 

In  the  twinkling  of  an  eye  I  was  my  old  self  again. 
The  brute,  so  long  subdued  and  partly  tamed,  arose 
in  me  with  fury. 

I  drove  them  from  the  room.  No  one,  except  me, 
had  a  right  there.  And  then,  alone  with  her,  I  rev 
eled  in  my  sorrow,  or  burst  into  wild  rage. 

There,  on  the  dome  above  us,  were  all  the  glisten 
ing  orbs,  which  she  had  taught  me  were  radiant 
evidences  of  God. 

What  mockery ! 

I  rushed  to  the  casement,  and  bellowing  in  deliri 
um,  I  shook  my  fist  at  moon  and  stars — and  cursed 
the  Mighty  Presence. 

Then  came  an  interval. 

For  a  time  I  was  cool  and  realized. 

Her  soul  had  flown  to  the  realms  above. 

Alone  with  her,  I  sat  for  minutes,  hours,  eter 
nities,  it  seemed,  and  every  lovely  feature  of  my 
Mamie  Rose  became  forever  engraven  upon  my 
mind  and  heart.  My  right  hand  was  resting  on  hers, 
my  left  was  hanging  motionless  by  my  side.  Some 
thing  rubbed  against  it.  It  was  Bill,  and  all  he  had 
been  to  me  was  forgotten.  No  one,  not  even  he,  had 
a  right  there. 

Again  the  beast  flared  up,  and  for  the  first  and 
283 


My  Mamie  Rose. 

last  time  my  Bill  felt  the  brutal  force  of  my  wrath. 

He  returned  defiantly  from  the  corner  where  he 
had  landed  and  spoke  his  valid  claim: 

"I  have  a  right  here,  Kil.  You  loved  her,  so  did 
I,  and  I  can  understand  your  sorrow." 

I  let  him  stay,  and  through  that  bitter  night  man 
and  dog  kept  their  silent  vigil  beside  the  bier  of  her 
who  had  loved  both. 

Perhaps  I  was  wrong  to  profane  the  quiet  cham 
ber  by  the  presence  of  my  Bill,  but  I  know  she 
would  have  sanctioned  it — we  three  were  square, 
honest  comrades. 

With  the  coming  of  the  same  sun  whose  going 
she  and  I  had  watched  only  a  few  hours  ago,  came 
saner,  holier  thoughts.  A  message  seemed  to  float 
to  me  from  her  sacred  lips. 

I  knelt  and  prayed,  "Thy  will  be  done." 
****** 

Spare  me  telling  you  where,  how  and  when  she 
was  buried.  What  difference  does  it  make  to  you 
how  she  went  her  last  journey,  never  to  return  in 
the  flesh?  Whether  we  had  her  buried  in  moun 
tains  of  her  favorite  flower  or  sent  her  away  in  the 
pine  box  of  the  pauper,  is  of  no  consequence  to  you. 
She  was  nothing  to  you,  she  was  mine,  all  mine ;  in 
life  or  in  death,  on  earth  or  in  heaven. 
****** 

384 


THE  INHERITANCE. 


CHAPTER  XIX. 

THE  INHERITANCE. 

LITTLE  more  is  to  be  told. 

Time  has  smoothed  the  jagged  edges,  and  I  have 
never  again  dared  to  measure  my  puny  wisdom  to 
His.  Yet,  and  there  is  a  forgiveness,  no  day  passes 
without  the  question :  "Is  what  I  have  learned  worth 
the  tuition  fee?" 

True,  my  knowledge  is  trifling  when  compared 
to  yours,  but  we  also  differ  in  our  "Whence." 

To  me  it  is  all  a  miracle.  Before  it  I  did  not  even 
grope  about  in  the  darkness  searching  for  light. 

I  was  satisfied. 

Now  I  know  at  least  that  there  is  a  soul,  a  mind 
within  me,  and  that  they  were  given  for  a  purpose. 
There  are  limits  to  my  understanding,  and  why  it 
was  that  just  as  the  portals  of  the  better  life  were 
slowly  opening  to  me,  my  little  guide  should  fall 
exhausted  on  the  threshold,  is  now  a  mystery  to  me, 
but  will  some  day  be  answered. 

Soon,  after  the  funeral  the  mother  and  the  Uttle 
287 


My -Mamie  Rose. 

brother  went  West  to  the  elder  son  to  make  their 
future  home  with  him.  That  left  just  Bill  and  me. 

We  got  used  to  it  in  time.  We  had  always  had 
the  same  likes  and  hobbies,  and  we  found  ways  to 
spend  our  time  with  profit  to  ourselves. 

Down  here,  where  we  live,  there  are  few  trees 
and  flowers,  and  even  air  is  at  a  premium.  Air  is 
necessary,  and  Bill  and  I  have  devised  a  scheme  to 
get  it  as  pure  as  possible  under  the  circumstances. 

The  roaring  bustle  of  lower  Broadway  turns  into 
deadly  silence  with  the  fall  of  evening.  For  miles, 
excepting"  a  watchman  or  policeman,  you  will 
scarcely  see  a  living  being.  That  is  where  Bill  and 
I  enjoy  our  pleasant  pastime.  After  the  day's  work 
is  ended  we  travel  through  the  quiet  streets  until 
we  reach  our  stoop  in  the  yawning  dark  canon  of 
the  skyscrapers.  We  do  not  talk  much;  there  is 
better  intercourse. 

From  where  we  sit  we  gaze  up  at  the  skies  and 
greet  the  merry  twinkle  of  our  glistening  friends. 
Then  through  the  dancing  myriads  of  celestial 
bodies  our  vision  winds  its  way  on  through  the 
mazes,  and  does  not  stop  until  it  sees  the  most  be 
loved  spirit  in  all  the  glory  of  the  heavenly  home. 
Every  star  reflects  her  face  in  brilliants,  and  from 
behind  the  hazy  veilings  of  the  cloud-smile  her  eyes 
shine  radiantly.  Bill  and  I  go  home,  not  lonely,  not 
288 


The  Inheritance. 

sad  or  soured,  for  we  have  spent  the  hours  in  the 
anteroom  of  heaven  and  have  learned  another  lesson 
in  the  quiet  night. 

The  firmament  and  the  stars  are  for  all  of  us; 
their  glories  shine  for  all  mankind.  You,  gentle 
reader,  may  learn  to  know  them — to  own  them — 
but,  alas!  you  cannot  own  my  Bill.  Perhaps  you 
would  not  care  for  him.  He  never  was  handsome, 
and  now  he  is  getting  old  and  might  not  be  to  you 
a  pleasant  companion.  But  he  has  traveled  with 
me  along  life's  highway;  he  has  never  told  a  lie; 
he  has  been  loyal  and  true,  and  there's  not  in  all 
this  world  another  dog  like  my  good  old  pal. 

For  some  time  after  the  going-home  of  my 
Mamie  Rose  I  was  ill,  but  found  my  position  still 
open  for  me  after  regaining  my  health.  I  was  not 
so  strong  as  I  had  been,  but  did  not  wish  to  neglect 
my  work,  and,  overtasking  myself,  an  accident  per 
manently  incapacitated  me  for  that  kind  of  employ 
ment.  I  had  to  submit  to  an  operation — to  be  re 
peated  later — and  the  expense  of  it,  with  the  long 
and  enforced  idleness,  soon  exhausted  the  remainder 
of  my  savings. 

It  was  then  that  the  old  past  crooned  the  tempter's 

lay.    But  for  only  a  very  short  time  was  I  near  the 

brink,  from  which  it  would  have  been  easy  to  drop 

back  into  the  black  abyss  from  whence  I  had  come. 

289 


My  Mamie  Rose. 

I  overcame  my  temptation,  and,  since  then,  have 
had  no  fear  that  t  would  revert  to  my  former  ways 
of  wickedness.  I  have  learned  to  understand  life, 
feel  mind  and  soul  within  me,  and  I  want  to  go  on, 
not  back. 

And,  besides,  there  is  the  legacy  of  her  who  has 
taught  and  inspired  me. 

Some  who  will  approve  of  my  determination  to  go 
on  might  disapprove  of  the  immediate  methods  em 
ployed  by  me. 

I  had  to  go  to  work  and  was  compelled  to  accept 
the  first  opportunity  offered  to  me.  I  became  a 
dishwasher  in  a  downtown  lunchroom  at  three  dol 
lars  a  week. 

It  was  unsavory  work,  but  it  was  work,  and  left 
me  time  in  the  evenings  and  on  Sundays  to  live 
in  my  books. 

Bill  and  I  were  again  reduced  to  the  attic.  It  did 
not  affect  us  very  much,  as  we  were  both  in  a  mood 
in  which  we  did  not  care  for  the  nicety  of  our  en 
vironment 

One  day  I  heard  that  a  man  I  knew  wanted  to 
see  me  to  tell  me  about  a  better  job,  which,  however, 
was  in  the  dishwashing  line,  too.  He  was  staying 
at  a  lodging  house.  He  was  not  in  when  I  called 
there,  and  I  sat  down  in  the  reading  room  to  wait 
for  him.  The  tables  were  covered  with  daily  papers 

2QC 


The   Inheritance. 

which  are  furnished  free  by  the  lodging  house  keep 
ers,  and  I  took  one  to  while  the  time  away. 

It  was  the  Evening  Journal.  I  glanced  through 
the  news  columns  and  then  meant  to  drop  the  paper. 
The  only  page  which  had  absolutely  no  interest 
for  me  was  the  women's  page.  Once,  indeed,  it  had 
helped  to  built  castles  in  Spain,  and  the  patterns  of 
gay  frocks  and  dresses  had  made  our  "dreams  to 
come  true"  more  enjoyable,  but  now — it  was  all  dif 
ferent. 

Throwing  the  paper  to  the  table  it  happened  that 
just  that  women's  page  was  uppermost.  I  did  not 
read  it,  but  every  once  in  a  while  my  glance  would 
sweep  the  page  in  rambling  look.  At  the  bottom 
of  it  there  was  a  caption  in  big  type :  "The  Evening 
Journal's  True  Love  Story  Contest."  The  caption 
was  so  conspicuous  that  my  eye  could  not  help  meet 
ing  it  every  time  I  looked  at  the  page.  My  wait 
was  long.  I  did  not  care  to  go  over  the  news  col 
umns  again,  and  at  last  I  began  reading  the  True 
Love  Story.  , 

It  was  not  a  bad  story,  still  the  features  of  it 
were  not  very  extraordinary.  I  finished  it,  and 
then  soliloquized. 

"If  the  story  of  this  man  is  worth  printing:,  why 
not  mine?  All  there  is  to  his  story  is  that  he  and 
the  girl  had  a  quarrel  before  the  marriage  event- 


My  Mamie  Rose. 

ually  took  place.  Neither  one  of  them  had  to  un 
dergo  a  self-sacrifice.  Would  it  be  sacrilegious  to 
tell  the  story  of  my  Mamie  Rose  ?  Or  would  it  not 
rather  inspire  greater  unselfishness  in  those  who 
are  in  love?" 

I  discussed  this  question  with  myself  for  some 
time,  and  then  came  to  the  conclusion  that  the  mem 
ory  of  my  little  girl  would  not  be  profaned  by  hav 
ing  the  story  of  our  love  told.  To  this  very  day  I 
am  not  sure  whether  I  did  right  in  giving  way  to 
my  inclination.  Perhaps  I  acted  indelicately,  but 
on  the  other  hand  I  am  not  refined  or  cultured,  and 
the  dictates  of  my  heart  are  generally  decisive  in 
a  question  of  this  kind. 

I  did  not  have  a  scrap  of  paper  in  my  pocket,  but 
saw  a  piece  of  yellow  wrapping  paper  on  the  floor. 
I  examined  its  cleanliness,  and,  finding  it  fairly 
clean,  began  to  write  my  istory.  The  conditions 
were  rather  severe  for  an  amateur  author.  The 
story  had  to  be  told  in  less  than  seven  hundred  and 
fifty  words. 

After  the  last  line  was  written  I  hurried  to  the 
office  of  the  Evening  Journal,  not  trusting  the  sta 
bility  of  my  impulse.  A  very  imposing  young  man 
condescended  to  receive  my  contribution,  and,  in 
stead  of  reading  it  immediately,  threw  it  carelessly 
aside. 

292 


The  Inheritance. 

"That  is  a  story  for  the  'Prize  Contest,' "  I  whis 
pered,  falteringly. 

"Is  it  ?  I  thought  it  was  an  editorial  on  the  rela 
tive  positions  of  England  and  Russia  in  Manchuria. 
Anyway,  don't  let  it  worry  you,  it  won't  worry  us. 
We  haven't  anything  to  do  with  that  kind  of  stuff ; 
it  goes  up  to  the  editor  of  the  women's  page." 

If  that  young  man  could  have  read  my  thoughts 
he  would  have  been  surprised  to  find  how  near  he 
was  to  trouble.  The  story  of  my  only  blessing 
called  "stuff"  by  that  young  whippersnapper ! 

Not  until  many  months  later  did  I  understand 
that  "stuff**  meant  anything  and  everything  from 
an  essay  to  a  two-line  joke. 

I  firmly  believe  that  I  was  the  first  buyer  of  the 
Evening  Journal  on  the  following  day.  I  turned 
to  the  women's  page,  but  did  not  find  my  story. 
The  following  day  brought  the  same  experience, 
and  I  felt  certain  then  that  my  "stuff"  had  found 
its  way  into  the  waste  basket. 

On  the  third  day  I  saw  the  name,  Owen  Kildare, 
for  the  first  time  in  print.  I  had  won  the  prize  and 
received  my  check.  My  elation  knew  no  bounds, 
and  when,  after  a  few  days,  letters  full  of  sympathy 
reached  me,  I  was  certain  that  I  had  not  done  wrong 
in  writing  that  little  story. 

My    thoughts    found    something  n«w  to  think 

I    j  rttr--        f.,-.  '.,,-,„.,•  7  ^~        ,^s  1*. 

393 


My  Mamie  Rose. 

about.  If  this  story,  written  under  adverse  cir 
cumstances  and  without  any  preparation,  could  win 
a  prize,  why  could  I  not  write  other  stories  about 
the  men  and  women  I  had  known,  and  about 
the  things  and  scenes  I  had  seen  and  am  still  see 
ing  ?  If,  as  in  some  of  the  stories  which  I  had  read 
in  reputable  magazines,  untruths  and  deliberate 
misrepresentations  can  find  a  place  in  print,  the 
truth  about  us — the  people  of  the  slums — should 
surely  be  also  worthy  of  publication. 

My  mind  was  full  of  incidents  witnessed  by  me 
through  the  many  years  I  spent  in  slummery,  and, 
without  any  difficulty,  I  wrote  a  story  of  the  life  I 
know  best. 

I  sent  the  story  to  McClure's  Magazine.  It  was 
accepted  and  partly  paid  for,  but  later  returned  to 
me  because  it  was  a  trifle  "too  true."  I  sold  it  three 
days  later  to  the  Sunday  Press,  and  the  editor,  Mr. 
William  Muller,  invited  me  to  become  a  contributor. 
The  invitation  was  gladly  accepted,  and  short  stories, 
editorials  and  special  articles,  all  treating  of  my  pe 
culiar  phase,  have  since  then  been  written  by  me  for 
that  paper. 

During  my  connection  with  the  Press  I  learned 
much  from  Andrew  McKenzie,  who  succeeded  Wil 
liam  Muller  as  Sunday  editor,  and  who  never  tired 
of  pruning  my  "copy"  with  kind  care.  There 
994 


The  Inheritance. 

also  I  met  one  of  the  finest  men  that  it  has 
ever  been  my  pleasure  to  know,  Hilary  Bell,  who, 
besides  being  the  critic  of  the  paper,  was  an 
artist  and  literateur  of  high  degree,  and  so  devoted 
to  his  work  that  the  zeal  with  which  he  pursued 
his  studies  brought  him  to  a  much  too  early  end. 
Bright,  staunch,  manly,  Hilary  Bell  is  no  more,  but 
his  memory  will  live  forever  in  my  grateful  heart. 

In  the  fall  of  1901  the  Sunday  Herald  published 
a  story,  "How  To  Be  a  Gentleman  on  Ten  Thousand 
a  Year."  I  happened  to  read  it  and,  providing  one 
has  the  other  and  more  essential  qualities,  thought 
It  no  hard  matter  to  keep  from  starvation  on  that 
amount.  The  story  was  written  in  a  spirit  of  com 
plaint,  reciting  how  difficult  it  was  to  be  a  "some 
body"  in  society  on  that  figure.  Down  here  on  the 
Bowery  and  East  Side  we  have  gentlemen,  though 
some  may  doubt  it,  and  they  manage  to  retain  their 
claim  to  the  title  on  very  much  less  than  ten  thou 
sand.  The  contrast  was  so  wide  that  I  could  not  re 
frain  from  writing  about  it  and  submitting  it  to 
the  Herald. 

Mr.  Dinwiddie,  the  Sunday  editor,  sent  me  a 
letter  asking  me  to  call.  I  had  called  the  story  "How 
To  Be  a  Gentleman  on  Three  Dollars  a  Week." 
The  editor  thought  my  story  a  trifle  exaggerated, 
and  it  took  some  time  to  convince  him  that  the  truth 
295 


My  Mamie  Rose. 

had  not  been  stretched.  But  at  last  the  story  was 
printed,  and  I  followed  it  up  with  other  stories 
about  my  people. 

In  January,  1902,  Mr.  Hartley  Davis,  the  editor 
of  the  Sunday  News,  invited  me  to  become  a  steady 
contributor  to  that  paper.  The  News  had  always 
been  the  paper  of  the  Fourth  Ward,  and  you  can 
easily  imagine  what  a  stir  it  created  among  some 
of  my  old  friends  when  they  saw  my  name  so  fre 
quently  at  the  bottom  of  a  story.  In  the  "front 
rooms"  of  many  humble  homes  down  there  I  have 
seen  some  of  my  stories  hang  proudly,  and  framed, 
in  the  place  of  honor  on  the  wall.  And  it  has  made 
me  feel  good.  Not  so  much  because  of  the  self- 
satisfaction,  although  let  me  be  frank  and  state  that 
very  often  when  I  know  and  feel  I  have  written  a 
fairly  good  story,  I  cannot  hide  my  pride  in  my 
work  and  glory  in  it,  for  it  proves  to  me  that  all  was 
not  in  vain — but  because  it  shows  that  even  these 
poor  people  whom  you  think  so  vile,  so  demoralized, 
are  glad  to  recognize  it  with  sincerity,  when  one 
from  among  them  succeeds  in  climbing  a  few  steps 
on  the  ladder  of  usefu]  decency  and  manhood. 

During  my  connection  with  the  Sunday  News  I 
had  a  chat  with  Hartley  Davis  which  was  the  start 
ing  point  of  this  book.    I  had  returned  to  the  office 
from  an  assignment,  and,  after  reporting  to  the  edi- 
296 


The  Inheritance. 

tor,  made  a  few  comments  on  the  scenes  just  left  by 
me.  We  fell  into  a  discussion  on  the  slums,  and 
Hartley  Davis  congratulated  me  on  my  escape  from 
them.  My  origin  was  not  known  to  my  readers  at 
the  time.  This  point  was  accentuated  by  Davis. 

"Kildare,  if  the  readers  of  the  Sunday  News  knew 
how  you  were  developed  from  a  seller  of  the  paper 
on  the  streets  to  a  writer  for  it,  they  would  have 
greater  faith  in  your  stories  of  your  people  and  in 
you.  A  chance  was  offered  to  you  and  you  took  ad 
vantage  of  it.  When  a  man  is  a  Bowery  tough  at 
thirty,  unable  to  read,  and  at  thirty-seven  starts 
in  to  earn  his  living  by  writing,  it  is  worth  the  tell- 
ing." 

I  said :  "It  was  not  a  chance,  it  was  a  miracle." 

There  was  a  difference  of  opinion.  To  settle  the 
difference  and  to  adopt  the  suggestion  made,  I  wrote 
my  story  for  the  Sunday  News  and  was  surprised 
at  the  sympathetic  response  it  awakened. 

Below,  you  will  find  a  copy  of  the  epitome  written 
by  Hartley  Davis  at  the  publication  of  my  story : 

NEW  YORK  SUNDAY  NEWS. 
February  2,  1902. 

AN  EPITOME  OF  THE  CAREER  OF  OWEN  KILDARE. 

That  a  man  should,  with  the  aid  of  a  good  woman, 
raise  himself  from  the  depths  of  brutish  degrada- 


My  Mamie  Rose. 

tion  to  an  honest  manhood  and  regard  for  things 
pure  and  holy  is  a  fine  thing. 

That  a  man  should  reach  the  age  of  thirty  without 
being  able  to  read  and  write,  and  then,  within  a 
few  years,  with  the  aid  of  this  woman  and  through 
his  own  indomitable  will  and  energy,  gain  such  mas 
tery  over  the  art  of  writing  as  to  be  able  to  tell 
such  a  story  as  is  here  presented,  is  so  strange,  so 
unprecedented  as  to  warrant  unbelief. 

Owen  Kildare  is  a  real  man  and  that  is  his  real 
name.  He  is  widely  known  on  the  Bowery,  where 
he  lives.  The  writer  of  this  knew  him  when  he 
was  a  bartender  in  Steve  Brodie's  saloon  and  when 
he  was  a  "bouncer"  in  the  frightful  dive  to  which 
he  refers. 

His  article  is  printed  as  it  was  written,  with  no 
more  editing  than  the  "copy"  of  the  average  trained 
writer  would  receive,  and  it  has  a  power  that  is  rare 
in  these  days.  Glance  at  this  epitome  of  his  life, 
and  wonder. 

1864 — Born  in  Catharine  street.    Orphaned  in  his  in 
fancy  and  adopted  by  a  childless  couple. 
1870 — Became  a  newsboy  in  the  gang  of  which  Tim 
othy  D.  Sullivan  was  the  leader,  and  fended 
for  himself. 

1880— A  "beer  slinger"  in  a  tough  Bowery  dive  and 
a  pugilist.    His  fighting  capacity  and  bru- 
298 


The  Inheritance. 

tishness  made  him  a  bouncer  in  one  of  the 
most  infamous  resorts  New  York  has  ever 
known. 

1894 — Met  the  little  school  teacher  through  protect 
ing  her  from  insult,  who  taught  him  to  read 
and  write  and  who  made  a  man  of  him. 
Gave  up  working  in  dives,  where  he  made 
sixty  dollars  a  week,  more  or  less  dishon 
estly,  to  work  for  eight  dollars  a  week. 

1900 — Death  of  the  little  school  teacher  one  month 
before  they  were  to  be  married. 

1902 — From  a  newsboy,  selling  the  Daily  News,  he 
became  a  writer  for  this  newspaper. 

In  no  profession  are  the  changes  as  frequent  as  in 
journalism,  and  not  long  after  the  appearance  of  my 
story,  I  became  a  writer  on  the  staff  of  the  Evening 
World.  While  there  I  "ran"  a  series  of  sketches  on 
the  editorial  page  of  the  paper.  They  were  written 
in  language  closely  resembling  the  real  idiom  of  the 
Bowery.  I  called  the  series  "The  Bowery  Girl 
Sketches,"  and  their  indorsement  by  the  readers  was 
exceedingly  flattering. 

My  experiment  in  Bowery  language  attracted  the 
attention  of  William  Guard,  editor  of  The  Sunday 
Telegraph,  who  made  me  a  very  favorable  proposi 
tion.  My  stories  in  that  paper  were  written  in  Bow- 
299 


My  Mamie  Rose. 

ery  "slang,"  which  is  not  slang  at  all,  but  merely  the 
primitive  way  of  expression  my  fellows  use.  The 
stories  were  signed  by  "The  Bowery  Kipling,"  a 
sobriquet  which  my  old  and  good  friend,  John  J, 
Jennings,  of  the  Evening  World,  had  given  me.  At 
no  time  during  my  work  for  the  Telegraph  had  the 
"other"  Kipling  occasion  to  sue  me  for  libel  or  in 
fringement. 

This  newspaper  experience  has  been  of  great  value 
to  me,  but  it  is  not  the  career  I  would  care  to  pursue 
for  the  rest  of  my  life  In  it  reward  is  too  often  the 
consequence  of  accident,  instead  of  being  the  logical 
sequel  of  merit  and  striving.  The  constant  physical 
and  mental  strain  affords  many  excuses  for  stimu 
lants,  and  absolutely  temperate  newspaper  men  are 
among  the  rarities.  As  said  before,  the  changes  are 
many  in  editorial  offices,  and  at  every  shifting  of 
editors,  the  staffs  are  also  included  and  obliged  to 
decamp.  There  seems  to  be  no  stability  as  far  as 
permanent  employment  is  concerned,  unless  a  con 
tract  is  signed.  But  contracts  are  only  signed  with 
the  stars  of  journalism  and  the  "small  fry"  is  always 
in  fear  and  trembling  about  their  "jobs.  Still,  per 
sonally,  throughout  my  short  stay  in  newspaperdom, 
I  have  had  many  kindnesses  and  courtesies  extended 
to  me,  and  the  schooling  was  appreciated  and 
digested  by  me. 

300 


The  Inheritance. 

In  January,  1903,  I  was  asked  by  the  Success 
Magazine  to  write  my  story  for  that  publication. 
While  preparing  the  story  I  had  the  pleasure  of  mak 
ing  the  acquaintance  of  Hall  Caine,  the  distin 
guished  novelist  from  the  Isle  of  Man.  He  has 
often  been  made  the  subject  of  much  criticism,  but, 
this  being  a  story  of  facts  and  not  a  critical  essay, 
I  can  only  say  that  Hall  Caine  is  a  man  worth  know 
ing,  and  I  value  very  highly  the  letter  he  sent  me 
after  reading  the  story  for  Success  in  manuscript. 

I  herewith  append  the  letter: 

"My  Dear  Mr.  Kildare:  I  have  read  your  story, 
and  I  have  been  deeply  touched  by  it.  Nothing  more 
true  or  human  has  come  my  way  for  many  a  day. 
It  is  a  real  transcript  from  life,  and  that  part  of  it 
which  deals  with  the  little  lady  who  was  so  great 
and  so  ennobling  an  influence  in  your  life,  brought 
tears  to  my  eyes  and  the  thrill  to  my  heart.  I  am 
not  using  the  language  of  flattery  when  I  say  that 
no  great  writer  would  be  ashamed  of  the  true  deli 
cacy  and  reserve  with  which  you  have  dealt  with  the 
more  solemn  and  sacred  passages  of  your  life. 

"It  was  a  true  pleasure  to  me  to  meet  you  per 
sonally,  and  no  conversation  I  have  had  on  this  side 
of  the  ocean  has  moved  me  to  more  sympathy.  I 
wish  you  every  proper  success,  and  I  feel  sure  that 


My  Mamie  Rose. 

such  a  life  as  yours  has  been,  and  such  a  memory 
as  brightens  and  solemnizes  your  past,  can  only  lead 
you  from  strength  to  strength,  from  good  to  better. 

"That  this  may  be  so  will  be  my  earnest  wish  for 
you  long  after  I  have  left  your  American  shores. 

"With  kindest  greetings,  HALL  CAINE." 

The  story  was  published  in  the  February  number 
of  Success,  and  the  response  was — I  do  not  know 
how  to  describe  it — astounding,  amazing,  yes,  al 
most  embarrassing.  Over  four  thousand  letters 
reached  me  from  all  parts  of  the  country,  and  the 
editor  received  letters  from  ministers  informing  him 
that  the  story  had  been  read  by  them  from  the  pulpit 
in  place  of  the  regular  sermon.  My  heart  throbbed 
when  I  saw  how  the  miracle  performed  by  my 
Mamie  Rose  in  the  name  of  God  had  moved  the 
many,  and  again  had  I  cause  to  thank  my  Maker 
for  having  sent  her  to  me — if  even  for  so  short  a 
time. 

Through  Mr.  Powlison  I  was  invited  to  speak  be 
fore  several  branches  of  the  Y.  M.  C.  A.,  and, 
though  my  delivery  and  elocution  are  very  much 
at  variance  with  oratorical  methods,  the  story  of  the 
miracle  proved  again  that  our  God  is  the  same  God, 
the  God  of  old  and  of  new. 

I  believe  that  I  can  see  my  path  before  me.     I 
302 


The  Inheritance. 

shall  write.  Brilliancy,  elegance  of  diction  and  a 
choice  vocabulary  will  not  be  found  in  my  stories 
and  articles,  but  the  truth  is  there,  as  I  have  seen  it, 
as  I  have  lived  it,  and  that  is  something. 

This  is  the  direction  in  which  my  ambition  lies. 
I  want  to  be  a  writer  with  a  clearly  defined  purpose. 
I  want  to  tell  the  plain  truth  about  men  and  things 
as  I  know  them  and  see  them  every  day  in  the  homes 
of  the  tenements,  in  those  abodes  of  friendless,  hope 
less  men,  many  of  whom  were  once  as  good  and 
respectable  as  any  of  you.  I  want  to  dedicate  my 
pen,  no  matter  how  ungifted,  to  their  service,  that 
others  may  know,  as  I  know,  of  the  places  and  con 
ditions  where  fellow-beings  begin  to  rail  against 
their  God  and  men  because  they  deem  themselves 
forgotten.  I  want  to  show  that  often  their  hearts 
hunger  most  and  not  their  stomachs,  and  want  to 
ask  you  to  believe  that  they,  as  well  as  others,  can 
not  only  feel  hunger  and  cold,  but  can  also  love  and 
despair. 

I  feel  that  there  is  work  in  this  field  for  me,  and 
ft  is  my  ambition  to  become  successful  in  it  and 
worthy  of  it,  as  a  living  testimony  that  one  of  God's 
sweetest  daughters  has  not  lived  and  died  in  vain. 

This  is  the  story  of  the  miracle  wrought  by  my 
Mamie  Rose, 

THE    END. 
303 


PS 

3521 
K543A2 
1903 


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